


Hail Mary

by bonnie_wee_swordsman



Series: Imagine Claire and Jamie Prompts [4]
Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Cuddling, F/M, Fraser Love, Sexual Tension, Undressing, book: outlander
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-26
Updated: 2017-05-09
Packaged: 2018-07-26 22:21:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 32,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7592512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonnie_wee_swordsman/pseuds/bonnie_wee_swordsman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jamie and Claire are forced into a rather intimate circumstance while on the road collecting rents.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hail Mary

Jamie deposited the night’s firewood, freshly cut, and sat down beside Murtagh, gratefully accepting the canteen of whisky and coughing a little in surprise as he took a swig. “ _This_ is fine stuff, man! Finer than your purse typically would allow, aye?”

“Nicked it from Dougal’s personal supply,” said his godfather with a grin, eyes glinting in the red light of the fire. “Figured he won’t miss it. And if he does, he’ll have two days to forget about it before seein’ me next.”

The party had split into two that afternoon. Dougal had taken a number with him to replenish supplies at a nearby trading hub, while the rest continued on with Ned to carry on with the collection of rents. They would meet up again two days hence at the crossroads.

Jamie took another long swig before handing back the canteen. “Aye, weel, ye better mind your back once he does see ye again, else—”

“What in _God’s_ name??”

Jamie jumped to his feet at Murtagh’s exclamation, instinctively drawing his dirk. Ned Gowan had just come into sight in the distance. No danger, then, Jamie thought, resheathing the weapon; but no, as he peered into the distance, it became evident that something was wrong. Gowan was walking slowly with _Mistress Beauchamp_ on his arm. Tiny and frail as the ancient lawyer was, he was supporting almost all of the lady’s weight.

Jamie’s heart lurched, and the world seemed to narrow dizzyingly to a single point. _Claire. His Claire_. He ran to her at breakneck speed, blood pounding in fear. As he drew close, he could see that her lips were nearly blue, and she was shaking uncontrollably like a leaf in a gale.

“She fell into the river,” Ned said, in clear distress as Jamie reached them. Jamie elbowed aside the other men who had run to help as well, and scooped her up possessively into his arms, eyes and hands frantically searching her for damage. No blood, broken bones, or bruising that he could see. He turned and made for camp at a run.

“How the devil did she manage that?” shot Murtagh at Ned, both of them following close behind.

  _Jesus_ , she was completely soaked through from head to toe, nearly double her normal weight from it. Jamie could feel the icy water soaking into his own clothes.  She was conscious, but couldn’t seem to keep her eyes open. He pulled her tighter against his chest, murmuring softly to her, “Dinna fash, I’ve got ye, now, _Sassenach_.”

_I’ve got ye, now, mo ghraidh._

“My fault, _all_ my fault it was,” Ned was wailing, disconsolate. “We were, ah, walking along the river talking and looking for cress and the like. I lost my footing and, well, _careened_ into her, and she, ah, she _fell_ down the bank and into the water. It was quite a deep section of the river and she went all the way under.”

“And it near cold enough to snow tonight,” one of the men said. 

“How long have the two of ye been walking to reach camp?” Jamie demanded over his shoulder. “How long has she been like this?” God, she was pale as a corpse.

“Nigh on a quarter of an hour. Terrible, _terrible_ , all my fault,” Ned moaned. A quarter of an hour on a frigid night such as this. Jamie shuddered and redoubled his pace.  

They reached the fireside at last. “Claire,” Jamie said urgently as he set her down briefly on her feet next to the fire. “Claire can ye hear me?” She was upright, but her head was lolling where she stood. He gave her cheek a little slap to liven her. “Claire, ye need to get the wet things off at once. Have ye a spare set of clothing?”

She nodded and started fumbling clumsily with the laces of her bodice. _Christ, not HERE_ , he wanted to say, alarmed, but Murtagh was already walking up with Claire’s bundle in hand. “No, _leave it there_ , man,” he snapped at his godfather— _was he the only one with a shred of decency?_ —as he stepped forward to pick her up again. “I’ll bring her over to her tent so she might—”

“She canna do it on her own, Jamie lad. Just _look at her._ ”  

Sure enough, as Jamie looked down, he could see that her fingers were so stiffened with cold that she couldn’t even get proper hold of the laces. Murtagh’s assessment was confirmed by the lady herself. She couldn’t manage any words through her chattering teeth but her eyes shone clear with meaning: _help_.  

Jamie turned away for a moment, running his hands backward through his hair, praising Michael, Bride, the Holy Virgin, and all the rest that Rupert and Angus weren’t here; or Dougal for that matter. Jamie had seen the way his uncle looked at Mistress Beauchamp. Lord, did _he_ look that way at her?

_Hail Mary, full of grace._

Rallying, and trying to infuse a note of chastity into his voice— _though not entirely certain what that might sound like_ —he called out orders. “Ned and Willie, and Geordie, too: find the largest blankets ye can, quickly.” 

There would be only three men in camp, in the end, who wouldn’t be involved in either the screening or the undressing (for Murtagh had already stepped forward, bushy face impassive as he deftly took over the work of loosening the bodice laces), but it simply didn’t seem right to shuck the clothes off a lady in a camp full of men without taking _some_ measures for propriety’s sake.

Behind the improvised screen of blankets, Murtagh and Jamie began the laborious task of fighting with the seemingly endless layers of wet fabric. Claire tried to assist as much as possible, but she could hardly do more than stand up straight, and even _that_ seemed a struggle. Her body seemed determined to fold in on itself, to curl around the vanishing core of heat. They had to physically unbend her arms themselves in order to extricate sleeves and the shoulders of her stays.

As they reached the final layers, Jamie’s heart raced madly. _Christ, dinna look…Dinna look…DINNA look. She’s your friend, not to mention a guest, and above all, a lady. It wouldna do to think about how round and soft and—look AWAY, man!_

She was down to just her shift, now. Jamie kept his eyes stubbornly on the top of her head, but he could see from the corners of his vision that it, too, was sodden, clinging right around the curves of her— _DA is watching ye. Brian Robert David Fraser is looking down on ye RIGHT NOW from heaven. What would he say about the thoughts you’re having? Ye ken just fine what he’d say, and grown man or no, he’d put you over the fence and tan yer hide while sayin’ it!_

He suddenly became aware that he had been standing still as a stone, fists and eyes clenched tight. Thankfully, Murtagh had already saved him the agony of having to assist with the final steps of their task. In his usual no-nonsense way (though he, too, had been taking a pointed interest in the sky to the greatest extent possible), he had removed the shift and gotten the dry one over her head before Jamie opened his eyes again.

Jamie grabbed one of the blankets from Willie and wrapped it around her, grateful to put an additional barrier between them, for he didn’t think he could have taken any more. His balls were aching and he could feel his heart thudding against his chest. Could she hear it? _Surely_ she could, and he blushed red at the thought of what else she might have picked up on.  

Claire’s body seemed unprepared for the sudden rush of warmth, for she staggered and fell full against him. He felt the scalding heat in his blood curdle into shame.   _Here she is suffering and half-dead and you standing there thinking only about her—well, her—you_ ken _what you’re thinking about, and_   _you’ll have done with it at once._  

She truly _was_ in a bad way. As he lowered her to the ground beside the fire, he could hear her murmuring things; in English, but an incoherent jumble of words. The blanket was a warm one, a fine, thick rug of wool, but she was still convulsing madly. She melted slowly down to lay lifeless on her side.

Tucking the blanket more securely around her, and swallowing the pang that arose at thought of leaving her side, Jamie made for his own tent to retrieve his spare shirt. It was the one that Dougal insisted on ripping open at every opportunity, so it was a ragged thing, but dry. 

As he hurried back to the group by the fire standing huddled around Mistress Beauchamp, he heard Willie pipe up, a note of worry clear in his voice. “We should have her put the dry gown on, now, aye? Blanket or no, surely she canna be warm enough in only her shift?”

There was a general rumbling of assent at this, and one of the men went to retrieve the additional garments from the ground.

“ _No_!” Murtagh grunted sharply, gesturing to where she lay. “Can ye no’ see, she’s nearly got the freezing sickness? Can barely keep her eyes open, poor thing, nor speak in a straight line. She needs _body_ heat.”

_Dead silence_. Fitting, for Jamie thought he would die right there on the spot.

Ned cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Erm…surely, we couldn’t _dream_ of proposing such an _impropriety_ to a lady. To think of…putting her in such…ah…of having her be with a man in… _in the altogether._ ”

“It wouldna be _skin on skin_ , ye dolt,” Murtagh said, rolling his eyes. “We dinna want to be struck down from above. _Shirt-to-shift_ , though, _aye_ , we _could_ dream of it, because otherwise we’ll be bringing Dougal back her frozen corpse come morning.”

Ned was still unconvinced, blustering in righteous indignation to cover his discomfort. “Surely blankets and—and—and hot food will be sufficient to bring her round? I _certainly_ don’t think—”

“Mur…s’right…” They all looked down, for it was Mistress Beauchamp who had spoken. “ _Got to_ …”  

Her eyes were still heavy-lidded, but her eyes were earnest as she looked up … _at Jamie._

_Oh, Holy God._

Murtagh led all the men a few paces away, and murmured low. “It should be one of the young lads. This thing must be done, but I willna have her be indecently exposed to someone who’s lain wi’ hoors.” All eyes turned automatically to the two sole virgins in the party.

_Our Father, who art in Heaven…_

Jamie looked questioningly over at Willie, who shook his head, wide-eyed and stepped back a pace. “Right then, lad,” Murtagh said, with a look that froze Jamie straight through ( _Christ, surely it was all written there all over his face_ ). “Get to it, then.”

_And forgive us our trespasses…_

Slowly, Jamie walked back to the fire, chewing the insides of his cheeks in anxiety. _Lead us not into temptation,_ aye? Ha! He was duty- and honor- bound to leap headfirst into the very _pit_ of the stuff.

Trembling, he knelt beside her, speaking very softly, unable to meet her eye. “Will ye…will ye allow me to wa—” His throat went dry, damn it all, and he had to swallow before he could finish. “— _W-warm_ ye, Mistress?” 

Was that a hint of a gleam that flashed across her eyes as he glanced up? _No_ , just more shaking from the cold…surely. But she nodded her assent.

Murtagh brought a number of grain sacks from the wagon and created a kind of supportive stack for Jamie to lean against as he held her. That was good. Lying down with her would not be good. Lying down with her would be _verra_ good.

_Hail Mary…full of grace…._

Jamie focused on prayer as he laid the rugs and furs down. If he was to be sitting up all night, may as well be comfortable. He shucked off his jacket, feeling very chilly in only his kilt and shirt, and sat down. Murtagh shoved a particularly stiff and scratchy blanket, folded neatly, into his face.

He tried to push it aside. “I dinna think we need another. We’ve got three blankets as it is to go overtop, and—”

“This one isna to keep ye _warm_ , lad,” Murtagh muttered sardonically as he dropped it—still folded—squarely onto Jamie’s lap. A few moments later, he was depositing Claire onto the self-same lap, making the prudence of the extra blanket abundantly clear.

Her back rested against his chest, and he brought his arms around her middle to keep her from falling off. Murtagh carefully arranged the blankets atop them both, then shooed the others away to the other side of the fire. For better or worse, they had privacy, just the two of them.

Jamie breathed deeply and forced all thoughts from his mind except those of Claire, the important ones: what she needed; how he could hold himself to best pass his warmth into her. He could feel the tension in her body as surely as he could feel the shape of it. The rigors of cold, certainly, but perhaps also a tremor or two of fear? Little surprise, if so. He was afraid himself, was he not? Terrified of this wonder he held in his arms. Terrified to imagine what she was thinking right now. Terrified of the fragility of it all—that her life was in his hands. _Lord,_ he prayed earnestly, _that my body may be enough; that I might keep her safe and well, this night._

He adjusted his hold so that his arms lay atop hers, and began chanting low to her in Gaelic; one of the old, long songs, a ballad of protection and certainty. A long time passed, a very long time, and more than once he felt his heart squeeze tight in agonizing fear that she was slipping away. But as the pocket of warmth around them began to take hold, she slowly began to relax; the shoulders uncurling from their hunch, the arms beginning to un-clutch from her chest. Her breathing began to resume a normal pace, and her neck relaxed, her head coming to rest finally and fully against his shoulder

“Thank you, Jamie,” she breathed. 

He exhaled himself, both from the sheer relief of hearing her normal cadence once more—still weak, but controlled—and at the novel sensation of her words literally resonating against his skin as she leaned against him. It sent a thrill through him that made him dizzy as he replied, “Think nothing of it, lass—that is— _Mistress Beauchamp_.”

“You can call me _lass_. You’ve done it before, hundreds of times.” She gave a tired little laugh. “And you _did_ undress me today, after all.”

_That is_ precisely _why I shall be observing all the formalities I can call to mind, woman,_ he though. Unclenching his teeth, he cleared his throat. “Are ye warming up, then?”

“Slowly,” she said, voice still faint. “My hands are the worst part, still. I can b-barely feel them.” She paused for a moment. “Erm…may I?”

He didn’t know what she meant, but he replied, “As ye please, Mistress.”

She shifted so that she was sitting sideways on his lap. She slipped her arms around him, one around the front and the other around his back, hugging him like a tree trunk and pressing both hands flat against him. “Ohhhh…  _much_ better…you’re so _warm_.”

“Aye…aye, I’m g-glad of it.” He was. But her new position made it so that he could now feel each round breast pressing against him as well, as heavy and full as–

_Hail Murtagh—MARY—Hail_ Mary… _full of grace…_

At last, she fell asleep. He must have drifted off himself, for he awoke some time later. All was still. Only the watchman was alert, and he deep into the whisky, his back just visible across the clearing in the moonlight.

He craned his neck to look down at her.  _God_ , she just felt so right, there, in his arms, her own holding him just as tight, her head nestled in the crook of his shoulder. She smelled of grass; sweet grass, like in the meadow at Lallybroch. She had molded to him in sleep, just like when she’d allowed him to comfort her at Leoch. Practically strangers they’d been, and even then, she’d curled against him and bared her grief to him, letting him hold her and share her pain. The trust and intimacy there had been between them, even then, had staggered him…and _now_ …

“Ye do break my heart, _mo nighean donn_ ,” he whispered, reaching out to trace the air above her brow. 

Suddenly, though he was certain he hadn’t touched her, Claire roused. Her body tensed and she gave a—a _moan_? He sat— _stunned_ —and gasped as she brought her hand up and touched his face, running her fingers back into his hair, cupping the base of his skull. She gave another—yes, _Christ_ , it was a moan, and pulled herself tight against him, making him emit a sound of his own. Murtagh should have brought _two_ extra blankets.

She wasn’t truly awake, for Jamie could see that her eyes weren’t even open; but _God_ , how she moved, even out of consciousness. No longer deadened with cold…she was an _ember_ , radiating energy and heat, ready to burn. She brushed her lips against his neck and exhaled, the hot breath raising gooseflesh down the length of his body. He could feel her, _so close_ , the thin layers of fabric between them seeming to melt away. He tightened his arms around her, wanting so badly to move his hands up, or down, both possibilities driving him mad. To twine his fingers in her hair and take her mouth to his. To have her straddle him so he could feel her, touch her, _all of her_. But he forced himself to remain still as she shuddered against him, to keep his hands squarely where they were on her back and shoulder. With her wedged so tight against him, undulating with apparent desire ( _Christ, would she be wet to his touch?_ he wondered, with a screaming, demanding ache in his balls), that grip was the only thing preventing him from losing all sense entirely.

All at once, she snapped her head up and met his eyes, her hands still on his face and neck, as if pulling herself up to him. They stared at one another, unblinking in the moonlight. He thought for a moment he saw something in her eye…a smile? Then, before he could wonder further (or contemplate the notion of throwing her beneath him right there and then— _and inviting the voice of Brian Fraser to go hang_ ), she went limp as a rag doll and fell back against his shoulder, sound asleep once more. 

The whole occurrence couldn’t have lasted more than twenty seconds, but he was heaving as though he’d run twenty _miles_.

“Jesus Christ, _Sassenach_ ,” he wheezed, shifting his seat to ease his discomfort and looking down at her in a kind of feeble wonderment. “You’ll kill me for certain and damn me to hell all in one, before the night is out.”


	2. Chapter 2

I was ice and electricity. Every cell, every muscle fiber, every neuron somehow both frozen and exploding with the same insuppressible energy.

A sound of need. Mine? His? _Yes,_ each rising to answer the other in kind. 

Warm arms came suddenly tight around my back, lifting me, then lowering me— _maddeningly slowly_ —down to straddle his broad thighs. A warm mouth explored mine and I struggled against warm hands that kept my hips confined, keeping me from taking what I wanted. The warm fingers gripped tight even as they dragged upward, skimming under my shift to the narrows of my waist; up still further to thumb— _for the barest of tantalizing instants_ —the tender, yearning underflesh of my breasts. I cried out in distress to feel the mouth—that blazing, devouring mouth—leave mine and a cloud of white obscure my vision. The sound had barely left my throat, though, before it was obliterated by another, a cracking moan of startled, throbbing relief as the mouth began to worship first one nipple, then the other, then the first again. 

The breathtaking sensations fell through me like whisky in my blood, and my body begged, _begged,_  for more, pleading out a desperate, wordless question over and over in empty thrusts and moans. I gasped as the question was suddenly and forcefully answered, just as wordlessly; gasped at the visceral relief of being filled deep with red-hot iron. We moved together, the heat of his cock stoking and then igniting me, _actual flames_ licking outward from my womb to encircle every inch of me. I wasn’t frightened of them, far from it, for they transformed me into a Fury, all-powerful to consume. _Consume,_ I did, riding him hard, and then harder, grinding furiously against the thumb that had the sensitive flesh above our joining glowing like a coal, sending shockwaves of heat up my spine. I began to keen, fast and urgently; then laughed darkly as I heard him begin to do the same under _my_ power. My cries drove him, and his, me; together we roared, rising upward, and upward, and still upward into a seething conflagration of burning skin and breath and pounding blood, until—

I awoke to waves of pleasure rolling through me, my limbs quaking in the aftershocks of a rather spectacular orgasm. I closed my eyes tight at once, and exhaled, trying to savor the fleeting, pulsing sensations for as long as I might: the blood pounding between my legs; the comfort of being held by strong, warm arms; the beautiful, manly smell all around me; the unspeakable joy of being sheltered by the body that had just brought mine to compl—

My eyes snapped open.

_Jesus H…._

His ruddy forelocks were in his eyes, inches from mine. His head was lolled back slightly against the grain sacks, but even so nearly rested against my own. His arms were tight around me, still… and mine were around him.

_Roosevelt…Christ…_

I was still trying to catch my breath from the joint rigors of orgasm and the heated encounter of my dream, and couldn’t tear my eyes away from his mouth. Those lips... _warm_ lips....I supposed it... _had_ been….?

 _Of_ course _it was a dream, idiot. You saw how nervous he was to touch you. He nearly soiled himself when time came to get that sopping shift off._ Despite everything, I had to stifle a giggle at the memory of him, going suddenly stock-still and screwing his eyes and fists tight, looking unmistakably like a naughty child caught red-handed and steeling himself for a whipping. Thank goodness for Murtagh’s _sang-froid_ ; _and_ , for that matter, that I was no fainting ninny, myself! While, granted, I had never before had the experience of being urgently undressed outside the realm of the boudoir, my upbringing with Uncle Lamb—to say nothing of the exigencies of six years as a combat nurse—had trained me not to fret over prudish concerns. No embarrassment to be had over matters of propriety if one dies of hypothermia while quibbling over them.  

No, it _had_ been a dream _._ How could it be otherwise with those otherworldly flames that had surrounded us during our pounding, burning ecstasy? Besides, as little as I knew about Mr. McTavish’s past, I _did_  think I knew him well enough to surmise that he was not one to seduce a lady in the night, particularly not one he had taken under his protection. 

 _...._ but _God,_ I thought, letting my palm feel the curves of pectoral muscle beneath it, the _strength_ of him,  _“our_ ecstasy _,”_ my subconscious brain had just called it. It had felt so real, so _immediate_ , so….

Guilt gripped my stomach, violent and inditing, in an attempt to distract from the other, more pleasurable tightenings occurring in my body at the thought. I was a married woman, for Christ’s sake; a _happily_ married woman, I hastened to add. And yet, here I was, practically _naked_ by the standards of the eighteenth century, having both spent the night in the arms of a huge, rugged Scot and enjoyed shockingly detailed dreams about having my way with him. 

 _E n j o y e d_.

Yes, I felt guilt. Not for having the dream...but for the undeniable part of my being that wished it hadn’t been a dream at all. Even now, in the faint light of pre-dawn, that great opportunity to dismiss the foolish notions of night and revert to reality, I couldn’t deny the things I was feeling for him...the sensations that still had my body lit like a candle against his...wanting more. 

I shifted slightly to look more fully up into his face. I started a bit to see his mouth turned up in a smile. _Good gracious, had he been watching me the whole time? Seen me staring at him for minutes while trying to get a bloody grip on myself?_ But no…he was still asleep, eyes closed and breathing steadily. The smile had been just a momentary flicker, it seemed, for his face was impassive once more. The high, elegant cheekbones; the golden stubble breaking out along his jaw; the soft movement of his breath against my forehead as he held me close and warm, even in sleep. 

A sound of tenderness escaped my throat. No, it wasn’t just lust I felt, potent as it was. This man, this fierce warrior big and strong enough to destroy a man in battle, had cared for me through the night, holding me as carefully and gently as he would a kitten. Despite his hesitation, his evident fear of crossing the boundary of propriety, he had given me the warmth of his body, cradling me to him and chanting soft words over me. He had _seen me safe_.

My fingers were reaching out as if of their own accord, needing to touch him.  “Oh, you sweet lad,” I whispered, and I grinned widely to see him smile once more in sleep at the touch, the warm cheek tightening under my fingertips.

Suddenly, though, his eyes flicked open wide and met mine dead-on. My grin fell into an expression of blank shock, and I tried to adopt a casual air as I— _bloody goddamn fucking fool, Beauchamp_ —moved my hand to my scalp to feign an itch that convinced no one. 

He was gracious enough not to call me out on this half-rate pageantry. “Did ye sleep well, Mistress?” he whispered, voice scratchy with sleep, looking down now with an expression of shy eagerness.

“Yes,” I whispered back, tucking my hair nervously back behind my ear, avoiding his eye. “Thank—thank you again, Mr. McTavish...for warming me.”

Warming me. 

 _The whooshing rush of melting ice. A burning tongue tracing up the lines of my neck and hollow of my ear. Our cries rising high and fierce above the roar of the fire_.

AVE MARIA…GRATIA PLENA…

“And—and you?” I stammered, my voice several notes higher and my cheeks so red I thought he could surely see, even in the dim light. “Did you, erm, sleep well?”

He certainly didn’t look it. His eyes were bloodshot, and there were dark circles underneath. “Oh—oh aye—” he said, looking suddenly shifty. “Verra pleasur— _pleasantly!_ —to— _to be sure_.” Good _Lord_ , he was blushing, now, too...

Suddenly the panicked impulse to vomit came over me and I had to clench all the muscles in my body to quiet the screaming alarm bells going off in my head. My _own_  nocturnal experience might have been a dream, and certainly I hadn’t _actually_  ravished Mr. McTavish, but had I done _something_ wicked to him in my sleep while having it? Frank had always said I was inclined to writhe wantonly about in sleep before initiating sex; my body’s own clarion call. Had I—?

Oh. FUCKING. Hell.

Mortified, my cheeks all pins-and-needles from anxiety, I began to jerk free my arm from where it lay pinioned behind his back, mumbling, “I should— _gobacktomytent_ —proper clothes, you know— _b-breakfast_ —”

Before I could extricate myself, though, his hands tightened on me, and he uttered the tiniest of sounds. I surely wouldn’t have heard it, had I not been still pressed against his chest. It was a pitiful kind of noise; a _whimper_? expressing, in the barest of instants, both protest…and _need_.  

Slowly, I looked back up into his face. The same emotions were written there, too.

“It’s…an hour or more until full dawn,” he said, voice tentative and cracking. “Ye might…stay a while longer, yet…so as not to wake the others.”

 _I might stay_...

Shaking the image of standing stones from my vision, I saw the anxiety rushing across his features at my silence. “Christ, I dinna mean to say—not that— _only_ if ye—”

I laid a hand on his shoulder and he stilled.

“I….wouldn’t want to wake the others,” I said quietly.

“No...” he breathed, eyes alight. 

“And…I _am_ still a bit cold,” I whispered hoarsely. _That wasn’t a lie_ , I told myself belligerently. It was a cold morning. It _WAS_.

“Well, then…” he said, voice low and deep and resonant against my skin, rippling down all the way to my fingertips. 

 _Just until dawn_ , I bargained silently with my conscience. 

Slowly, I lowered myself back down to him, resting my cheek against his shoulder. I thought I heard him sigh; in contentment? It was rather hard to tell for sure, for my own sigh— _escaping me subconsciously as I settled back into the warm arms and felt the warm hands pull me subtly closer against him_ —seemed to drown out out all other concerns. 

_God, lad...the things you bloody do to me._

_...my sweet Jamie._


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Didn't intend this to be a continuing story but got some great anon prompts on tumblr that inspire me to continue where this story left off!

**The canteen hit Jamie’s jaw squarely with a sharp _THWOCK_.**

“A _mhic an diabhoil_!” he snarled, looking wildly around and finding the culprit at once. “Damn you, Murtagh, what in _God’s_ name was that for?!”

“To see if I could get yer gob to close all the way,” the usually-dour clansman said with a smirk, arms crossed. “A wee brown-haired lass seems to have broken your hinge this morning.”

Murtagh saw the canteen coming and ducked, laughing as it clattered against the nearby tree. “Careful, ye wee smout—that’s the _good_ whisky!”

Despite Jamie’s annoyance, the corners of his mouth were twitching as he returned to finish unlashing the bundles from his saddle; and, conveniently, returning him to the sight of Mistress Beauchamp carrying a bedroll to the place she’d claimed for her lean-to.

The man was right: Jamie hadn’t been able to stop looking at her all day: sidelong as they rode; catching her eye as they stopped for water; training his gaze on back of her head when she nudged her mount past his on the road to speak with Ned. Always and completely: she was all he saw, this day.

He had been drawn to Mistress Beauchamp from the first—when she mended his shoulder; when he held her at Leoch; but now… _Christ_ , he was all but consumed by her; and how could he _not_ be? Having slept with her in his arms? Remembering the scent of her hair? Now knowing the shapes of her under his hands; what it was to hear sounds of desire from her lips as she moved against him, seeking?

And above all, to know that she had _stayed._ Aye, she had slept in his arms, but any lass might have done the same with any man, to save her own life….but upon waking this morning, she was flustered, had made to rise, and yet at the barest suggestion, _she had stayed there in his arms_ for nigh on an hour, waiting for the rest of camp to awaken. They both had assumed pretense of sleep, but neither of them had allowed themselves to drift away. Her breathing had stayed quick; he could feel it, warm and shallow at the base of his throat. She surely had felt his heart thudding away, with her ear resting so near it.

No, they hadn’t slept; nor had they spoken. They’d _held one another_

And there, at the last, he’d brought one hand—shaking—to softly, gently, _slowly_ come to rest on the curve of her head. She’d gasped and made as if to—say something? Move?   _Christ_ , touch him back?

And just at that moment, the camp had come alive. Before he could blink, she had gotten to her feet and the day began as it always did. Boiling water; folding, packing; bannocks and whisky; back on the long road through the glens; all just as it was every day.

But today, he couldn’t stop looking at her.

_At Mistress Beauchamp, who had slept in his arms._

But God, he _had_ to stop thinking about her. She was the finest woman he’d ever met —but he could offer her no future, as a wanted criminal. _None._ He wouldn’t subject her to the dangers a life with him would entail. He had to stop thinking about her.

He _couldn’t_ stop thinking about her.

“Ye did a good thing, Jamie, lad,” Murtagh said, yanking Jamie back once more from grim reverie, deep brown eyes watching him. “Keeping the lass last night as ye did. You’re the only one that could ha’ done it for her properly.”

“Aye,” he coughed, “well, I… she….” He cleared his throat uncomfortably, unfurling his tent canvas.  “I’m glad to’ve been of service to her.”

Murtagh made a noise somewhere between a chuckle and a _harrumph_.

“And what’s _that_ supposed to signify?” Jamie snapped, tugging at his stock. _Hadn’t Claire nearly frozen to death last night? Then why, by Bride and all the saints, was the gathering evening so bloody HOT?_

“Haud yer wheesht, lad,” Murtagh, now chuckling in earnest at Jamie’s discomfort. “Your secret doe-eyes are safe wi’ me.”

“Not _doe-eyes_ …” Jamie muttered, feeling all of seven years of age.

“Hey.” Murtagh’s hand clapped warm on his shoulder, his eyes suddenly soft and unusually earnest. “She’s a fine woman, Jamie, _Sassenach_ or no’.”

 _Aye_ , Jamie thought, watching the wind lift her curls into life as she rifled her wee medicine box, then made for the wood with a basket in hand, _she truly is. And I can’t let myself want her._

And then the messenger rode into camp.

* * *

 **He waited until it was nearing sunset, when he knew she would be out gathering her wee herbs before the light went**. He made for the loch under the pretext of needing a piss, seeing Murtagh watching him knowingly. Jamie knew without asking or telling that his godfather would keep an eye on the other men and prevent any from venturing in the same direction. He said a prayer, thanking God for the gift of this protector that had watched over him all his life, and continued down the path.

Sure enough, as the woods opened out into the waning crimson sunlight, he found her seated on a low boulder, looking out upon the loch, basket at her feet.

Seeing her, her unbound curls wafting sweetly in the breeze, his throat went instantly tight.

_Christ, how could he do this?_

Knowing her…. _How could he not?_

He cleared his throat and sang out with an attempt-at-cheery, “Take care no’ to fall in.”

Her head turned sharply, surprised, but a begrudging smile was already tugging at her lips. “Ned’s nowhere in sight—I think I should be safe.”

“Good,” he laughed—God, how it delighted his soul to laugh with this woman— “Best stay well shot of him.”

“But he’s such a darling!” She pursed her lips to hold back her mirth. “I’m not sure I can refuse him if he comes calling!”

“Well, do what ye must, lass,” he grinned, “I’ll be standing by to hold ye, anytime.”

She made a small sound of kind acknowledgement but looked away, suddenly shy.The silence rang between them so acutely, Jamie could hear the voices from camp, many yards distant.

“I’ve gotten some good news, Sassenach,” he said, feeling the letter in his waistcoat pocket. “I’ve…been pardoned.”

“ _NO_!” She leapt to her feet, mouth open and excitement dawning. “Oh, Jamie, that’s _wonderful_ news!” She grabbed one of his hands in hers and squeezed it hard, practically bouncing with her enthusiasm. “God be bloody praised!!! I’m _so thrilled_ for you! Whatever happened to bring that about?”

They sat on the boulder and he explained, grinning from ear to ear, the contents of Colum’s letter. Unbeknownst to Jamie, his uncle had been exercising all his considerable influence to get the accusations against him dropped. By some miracle, he had succeeded, and had sent a messenger at once to share the glad tidings.

Jamie read between to lines to gather that His Grace the Duke of Sandringham had been more than instrumental in getting the matter quietly resolved and Jamie’s outlaw record expunged. Jamie could just imagine the foppish gent drawling: “Anything for my _DEAHHRRRR_ Jamie,” in those thick, unctuous tones, wet eyes glittering with anticipation.

The Duke’s predilections were well known, and such attentions had made Jamie _supremely_ uncomfortable at the time of the man’s last visit. However, God bless him and all his house, if such affections had just saved Jamie from a life of flight and ultimately the noose. 

_And ten times the blessing to him if it meant Jamie’s honor was now completely unhindered…that he was completely free to…._

“What have ye been gathering, then?” he blurted, feeling his wame clenching in anxiety. 

“Good Lord,” she laughed, startled, “you suddenly want to talk about _herbs_ after such splendid news!?”

“My life is my own again,” he said, shrugging, “I want to talk about anything and everything.” 

“Cress,” she said affably, nudging the basket with her foot. “Didn’t manage to bring back any last night, after all, what with one thing and another.” 

She paused suddenly, furrowing her eyebrows. She was leaning on her hand, the fingertips just inches away from his plaid on the rock. 

When she spoke, her voice was soft and full of feeling. “Thank you again for…for everything. You were so— _wonderful_ about it all.”

Jamie felt his chest swell. “Think nothing of it, lass. You’ve saved my poor hide more times than I can count these past weeks. It was about time that I should do ye a service in return.“

“Did you get _any_ real rest? I’m afraid I must have given you a dreadfully uncomfortable time. ”

“Och, dinna fash, lass. It was just fine.” 

_It was the best night of all my years, mo ghraidh._

“Mistr—”

No. Not _Mistress_.

“ _Claire_?”

Even sitting shoulder-to-shoulder, facing forward as they were, he could see her straighten and stiffen at the tone in his voice.

“I find meself—” he said, trying to force his lips to move at his bidding, but finding them slow and wooden,  “—that is—”

_Help me, woman. See what’s in my heart. Surely ye ken it already._

Thank the Lord it came out sounding calm and clear:

“ _I care for you,_ Claire.”

She stopped breathing. The breath _actually_ left her, for more heartbeats than Jamie knew. The absence of it—that rhythm of her that he’d memorized, he now realized— was like whisky thrown on the fire within him, the flames roaring instantly up in fear and anticipation. He wanted so desperately to take her face in his hands so he might look into her golden eyes while telling her all his heart…but his hands were shaking and he didn’t think he could get out the words if he moved.

“I care for you as I’ve never cared for anyone in my life,” he said, mustering his courage only by focusing only on the wonder of the person beside him. “Your wit, your courage, your pigheadedness,” he laughed, his whole body glowing with sudden warmth. “The–” He clenched his hands in his lap, staring at them as if _they_ held the proper words. “– _life_ in you Claire, is unlike anything I have ever encountered. I havena been able to get ye out of my head since the first day we met. And then last night…”  

He heard her lips part and a long intake of breath, then a soft, inscrutable, “ _Jamie_ …”

“I ken I’ve perhaps no business saying such things. Even though I’m no longer a wanted criminal, I’ve no great wealth, and perhaps I’m nothing you ought to trouble o’er.“ He shook his head, hard. “But _surely…surely_ ye ken as well as I what there is between us, Claire.”

He screwed up his courage and turned to face her. She was staring down into her lap, hands clasped. Her lips were pressed tight, her expression, for once, unreadable.

“I canna believe I’m alone in feeling it… _this…_ whatever it is between you and me.” He laid a hand slowly and tenderly atop hers, his heart pounding.

She jumped when his hand touched hers, and with a jolt, Jamie saw that she had been twisting her golden ring round and round her finger.

Jamie stood at once and raised his hands in a gesture of apology. “Forgive me,  lass….”

_Fraser, you dolt, have ye no sense to spare a thought for what the lass is going through?_

“I’m so sorry, Claire,” he repeated. “I—I ken—that ye still grieve for your departed husband.”

Her lips went tight and Jamie saw her blink several times, hard.

“It…. isna right that ye should forget him, or even try to. If ye loved him, he must have been a good man. But I–I should–”

_Courage, man. COURAGE._

“…It would be my _honor_ to see to the care of his wife.”

Finally, she looked up, sharply, her eyes wide. She spoke in barely a whisper. “ _What_?”

“ _Will you marry me, Claire_?”

She simply stared at him, in utter shock.

He went to his knees in front of her in the oath-giving posture, relinquishing all caution and all fear. He exhaled heavily with the relief of letting the feelings for her wash over him. “I care for you—"

 _I love you,_ he wanted to scream.

“—and now that I’m a free man, I wish to give ye everything I have. My name—my clan—the protection of my body….Claire, they’re all yours, now and forever.” He reached for her hand, trembling, dying to touch her. “If you’ll have me.”

“No.”

Jamie felt as though she’d pushed him backward into the icy lake. He opened and closed his mouth, unable to find the words for the pain ripping through him.

“I’m sorry, Jamie. I can’t marry you.” She bolted to her feet, took up her basket, and made quickly back toward the camp.

“Claire—please _wait_ —I–”

This couldn’t be happening. This just couldn’t be.

He rose on shaking legs and tried to follow, reaching for her arm. “Sassenach, stop, please—I’m sorry if I was too—I just thought we—”

She threw off his hand and faced him only long enough to say coldly:

“ _You were mistaken_.”

* * *

_**Mistaken.** _

It should have been a night of celebration; should have been the most joyous occasion of his life–to know he was a free man, could go home at last. 

But it was hell, every moment, her words tormenting him as he played each memory he held of her over and over in his mind, every time they had ever spoken, touched, laughed, or cried together, culminating in the breathtaking intimacy of the previous night. Was it _lust_ deluding him? Was it pure, lecherous desire for her body that had colored these memories and called them love?

_No._

_NO, damn it all!_

He knew his heart. And hers—Christ, it danced across her face so freely, that— _No_ , he was not mistaken.

Perhaps she was frightened; perhaps it was too soon.

But he was _not_ mistaken.

It made seeing her flitting about all evening, smiling and pouring whisky liberally all ‘round the fireside — the collective mood of festivity ostensibly in honor of his pardon — all the more galling. She laughed and joked with the lads, chatted at length with Ned Gowan over documents, and generally charmed the whole camp with her golden eyes and glorious smile…everyone except him.

She’d spoken to him only once, when she offered him drink— “For you, Mr. McTavish?”— but she wouldn’t look at him.

 _She didn’t even know his real name. She didn’t_ want _to know his real name._

He had wanted to drink, but hadn’t—couldn’t allow himself the escape of oblivion. This was his penance, to survive the long hours of the evening, watching her; the longer ones of silence and desolation, seething, hurting, long after the rest had fallen into their deep whisky-slumber. He needed to think with a clear head—to _feel_ this, to understand.  

Christ, if he could only understand _why…!_ If she felt for him as he for her, why deny him so cruelly? Claire was shrewd, but he’d never known her to be that. Surely she had some reason. Surely, if he could only speak with her…

In the dead of night, the grief and the pain nigh unbearable, his ears pricked up. _Someone moving surreptitiously about camp._

Clasping his dirk, he slowly sat up high enough to survey the clearing. Geordie, supposed to be on sentry duty, was sound asleep and Jamie gave a silent prayer of thanks to see Claire moving quietly in the direction of the loch.

Tomorrow, they would reach the crossroads and meet once more with Dougal and the rest; there would be more folk for her to tend; more folk to observe their behavior; to hear about their unorthodox night together. He HAD to speak with her tonight.

He followed quietly, but when they were far enough away to be out of earshot of the sleepers, he spoke. “ _Sassenach_?”

She jumped and whirled, and he instantly raised his hands palms forward. “I’m sorry—” he whispered. He came slowly toward her. “I’m so sorry, lass, I didna mean to frigh—” 

He froze, seeing her clearly now in the moonlight. “…You’re running.”  

It was not a question. She was wearing her traveling cloak, and the bundle she clutched clearly contained her medicine box. Her eyes were wide and her nostrils flaring with deep breaths. She was pointed toward the road, in the opposite direction of the horses.

“And on foot?” His voice was flat. Dead. 

She shrugged stiffly, tensed as though ready to bolt. “Didn’t want to risk waking the men.”

“Where?” he croaked. _Why_?, he wanted to scream.

Her eyes were defiant, wide with alarm and determination. “Back to where I came from—same place I’ve been trying to go since Dougal took me captive.”

“Ye canna just _go_ , Claire,” he said, trying to sound dismissive.

Her face was stone. “I can. I will.”

“Claire, I willna let ye do this.“

“Didn’t realize you were my jailer. What are you going to do, clap me in irons?” She was backing slowly away from him and his desperation was mounting with every pace.

“It’s wild country out there! Wolves and—brigands, and—” He was petrified, heartbroken, grasping at straws to keep her from vanishing. “At least–let me _accompany_ you to your destination—see you safe!” 

A sob rising in his throat. _Christ, dinna leave this way._

A hoarse gasping as he reached for her.

“Please, _mo chridhe–”_

Ice in her eyes. “I don’t need your ‘ _protection_ ,’ Mr. McTavish.”

_A knife in his gut._

> _‘…the protection of my body, Claire…  
>  …yours, now and forever.’_

The sound of his heart breaking.

She was leaning into her frenzied defiance. “I _did_ have a life before I fell into your lap, you know!” She realized what she’d said, blushed, and stammered angrily. “I mean—into the– _hands of the whole bloody clan_. I had a _LIFE_ ,” she repeated, “and I’m far past due to return to it!”

“Aye,” he said, low and precise, shaking with anger. “you’ve made it exceedingly clear that there’s nothing whatsoever keeping you here.”

She had the grace to look abashed. “Jamie…” He saw the muscles of her face and throat working furiously; the regret in her eyes. She even took a step toward him and made to touch his arm. “Jamie, please, I’m so… _so sorry_ for—”

He shrugged back from her touch and skirted silently around the edge of camp. She followed him, hissing out his name, but he did not slow his pace until he reached the horses. He located her mount and unhobbled it, leading it a hundred yards away from the others, picking up saddle and gear as he want.

When she at last caught up with him, he plucked the bundle from her arms, fastening it perfunctorily to her saddle.

“Jamie, wait—” 

Her face was upturned to him, so white and so perfect it made the pain writhe within his chest. He marshaled his features into his mask of impassivity and gave a cordial nod. “I wish ye the best of fortune in your _life,_ Mistress _._ ”

She reached for him, pleading. “Jamie, listen, I—”

He pressed the smaller of his dirks into her hand. “Goodbye, Claire.”

And without a backward glance—though he wished to throw his arms around her and beg her, _beg her_ not to leave—he turned on his heel back toward the fires, listening first to the silence, then the jingle of harness and the sound of hooves going quietly off into the night.

He didn’t sleep that night. He couldn’t. He lay awake, breaking apart, wrapped in a blanket that still held the scent of her hair.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**I woke knowing instantly, breathtakingly, that Jamie was there, holding me.**

_Thank God._  

_Thank God he’d come after me._

_Thank God_ that his voice was behind me, urgent with tenderness, and his arms alive with exactly the same as they pulled me close against the chill _._ “Are ye warm enough, _mocree_?” 

‘O _h, yes_ ,’ I tried to whisper, but the words were subsumed by a tiny sound from my throat—a _mew_?— of simple, silly happiness; of closeness, of sweetness, and of complete security. I let myself fall back into the dark of him, the heat of his chest against my back; his knees behind mine; my mind swirling lazily, freely within the haven he had made for me within himself.  

Then I woke again and his soft, warm mouth was latching slowly into the curve of my neck and shoulder. I was moaning and he was moving higher; higher toward my ear as he whispered unknown syllables into my skin. Moaning. Moaning and feeling his breath, his lips, _his love_ at my ear. Moaning, on my back in the heather with Jamie on top of me, slipping his hand into the neck of my shift to free my breasts. Moaning, _gasping_ as he put his mouth on them, suckling me hard; moaning as his hand slid hard under my hips, pulling me up against him. Feeling him hard, even through the layers of clothing. Bucking against him, my fingers digging into his back. Moaning as he moved urgently forward and back, his mouth never leaving my nipple; moving with him, _keening_.

“I need ye,” he groaned suddenly in a hoarse whisper against my breasts, his grip on my thigh tightening hard and the motions of his hips growing alarmingly urgent with need. He was gasping from it, his whole body shaking. “I need ye _now_ , _mocree_.”

“Have me,” I was groaning back, reeling with my own desire, feeling an electric wave travel through me as I heard his moan of lust, as he grappled frantically with my skirts. “Jamie, Jamie I’m _yours_ — _Pl—_ ”

* * *

I woke, bolted upright, and gasped violently all at once, so fast and suddenly that the horse reared against her tether nearby and whinnied in terror. Instinct brought me flying across the clearing to calm her, but the moment she subsided, I staggered backward and fell hard onto the ground on the far side of her tree, shaking uncontrollably from head to toe—from rage or— _something else—_ I couldn’t tell.

“Goddamn _FUCKING_ hell!” I hissed in fury and despair into the night as I dragged myself up to lean against the tree. “Can’t he leave me the hell alone?”

_No, I canna…And ye ken why, lass._

After Jamie’s startling proposal—that ridiculous…. heartbreakingly _beautiful_   proposal— I’d spent the rest of my evening on my hasty but effective escape plan. I’d passed round the laced whisky multiple times along with the plain that flowed freely in honor of Jamie’s pardon; no one had noticed that they were sinking further and more quickly into drowsiness than was usual. Before that, I had contrived a deep and sudden interest in discussing our route with Ned, memorizing the maps he pulled forth from his saddle bag, devouring them and repeating to myself over and over as he talked: _that direction to the_ _Ness. Follow it up to Inverness. Then a bit south and a bit east, and not far to Craigh na Dun._

All had gone to plan. Until Jamie had followed me. Granted, I’d traveled infinitely faster on the horse onto which he’d thrown me than I would have on foot, but —

Jesus, the way he had looked at me— _begged_ me—

But I had had to go—right then—had told myself I wouldn’t stop even to sleep, wouldn’t stop for a moment till I reached the standing stones and was back in Frank’s world. Yet, I had all but fallen from my horse, and hadn’t even bothered with a fire; just curled beneath my _earasaid_ and fallen into a deep sleep.

_But apparently not deep enough to keep out Jamie Fraser._

I sat there in the freezing night, bringing my knees up to my chin and hugging them in frustration. “Beauchamp….you _stupid…._  lust-crazed—”

_It’s no’ just lust. Ye ken that, as well as I; ye ken what there is between us, mocree._

“I didn’t even know what that word _means_ , you bastard!” 

But it was clear enough from the way he had spoken it, the way it had sounded in the night as he’d reached for me, that it indicated some deep…. 

> _“I care for you, Claire”_

“Dear God,” I whispered into my arms, longing, defeated. “… _Jamie_ …”

Yes,  _of course_ there was something between us. 

 _Of course_ I felt it between us almost from the first.

 _Of COURSE_ that night in his arms had been… 

“Jamie Fraser, you stupid boy! Why the BLOODY hell did you have to _propose_?”

But thank God he had. _Thank GOD_ , or else I’d have— _what_? Had him in the woods at the first opportune moment?  _Had—a life with him?_

 _…I bet it would have been a_ good _life…_

_Dear God._

“Who…. _are_ you, Beauchamp?”

My horrified question resonated in the darkened glade, indicting, with no answer reverberating back. 

_Go. Go now and don’t think of anything but your husband._

_That’s who who’ve got to be: y_ _ou’re Frank’s wife._

I scrambled to my feet and untethered the horse as quickly as I could. 

What a ridiculous fool I’d been, so be lulled into a prisoner’s security with the MacKenzies. My HUSBAND was back in the twentieth century with no notion whatsoever as to what happened to his wife. He’d spent nearly six weeks frantic with fear. _And I’d all but forgotten him._

“I’m coming, Frank,” I whispered as I set off at a gallop. “I _promise_.” 

The entire morning, the entire afternoon, the entire evening, my mind was a terror fugue, a mad fury of fear and guilt, punctuated by the haunting tones of Welshman’s song of the woman of Balnain. 

> _I lived for a time among strangers_

Jamie. 

> _who became lovers and friends_

_Jamie, with the wounds I inflicted upon him showing in his eyes._

> __lovers and friends_ _

_Jamie…_

> _lovers_

__Jamie…_   
_

_NO:_ _FRANK._

_FRANK, waiting._

_FRANK, worrying._

_FRANK._

At last, as night fell once more, the hill of _Craigh na Dun_ appeared in the distance. I kicked the horse hard and we raced up the slope, both of us panting and heaving. Could the animal feel my terror? 

> _I saw the moon come out_

_FRANK.  
_

> _and the wind rose once more,_

> _so I touched the stones_

_FRANK.  
_

> _and traveled back to my own land_

_FRANK.  
_

> _and took up again with the man I had left behind_

FRANK. 

The stones were wailing, keening. 

I threw myself off the horse.  

“Frank…Frank…Frank….” was on my lips as I staggered to the stone circle. 

And as the wind _did_ rise, 

rose so high my skirts billowed around me,

I slammed my hands against the screaming stone.

Frank. 

* * *

 _And nothing_.

* * *

“Frank.”

* * *

Hours. 

* * *

Blood dripping down my hands and smearing the stone. 

* * *

“Frank….” 

“Oh, God…  _Frank_ ….”

* * *

I had no voice in the dawn light. I had no tears left. 

My body was curled around the base of the stone, cradling the memory of the life I had had.

 _Once_ more.

Once more, the stone under my bleeding hands. 

* * *

 _And nothing_.

Exactly. 

* * *

The sun was blinding me as I dug, the dirt like glass in my scraped and bleeding hands.

In the hole at the base of the stone, I placed my gold ring. It glinted in the sunlight as I stared down. 

_From F to C with love. Always._

“Goodbye, Frank.”

* * *

* * *

**Thank God the horse hadn’t strayed far.** I found her at the stream and caught her by the halter, the panic I had felt rush through me in waves during my night on the hill surprisingly absent.

Frank was gone. Or rather, _I_ was gone. The stones were a one-way voyage that was now complete. It was that simple. The Frank part of my life was now done. 

_Why doesn’t his loss hurt you more? Have you no heart, you coldhearted—_

But those were only _echoes_ of guilt, calling out faintly to me from the hole I had dug— _the hole I had covered over, handful by handful_ — at the base of the stones. 

And part of me had known it all along, hadn’t it? Since the first moment I’d realized I’d gone back to another time? The Welshman’s song had given me hope, yes, but of course I knew that there was always the chance I would never be able to return. 

In truth, I’d been grieving _and healing_ from the loss of Frank ever since I arrived at Leoch. I had fled to the stones out of guilt, pure and simple. Lord, my very thoughts on that ride told everything in black and white: 

‘ _Frank is worried;’ ‘Frank is your husband.’_

NOT _‘I can’t bear another day without Frank;’_ not _‘what if I never see Frank again?’;_ not _‘I ache to have you back in my arms, Frank.’_

No. It was : “You’ve _got_  to fight your way back to Frank. You’re his _wife._ ” 

I loved Frank; had always loved, him even from the first…but I didn’t feel a visceral need of him when we weren’t together; not now, not when we first met, not even during the war.

 _I hadn’t ever felt in almost eight years_ —even with nearly all of our marriage spent apart— _the way I felt now, missing Jamie._

Yes, perhaps I would hear those echoes from Craigh na Dun many times in the years to come; but I had made my choice and I was turning the horse without conscious thought. 

I _could_  make my way south to England, blend in and start a new life among the familiar voices, quietly, living out my life alone in atonement for what was lost and what wickedness had clouded my heart. 

But it was north that I was turning; north that I made for with all haste; to the life that the stones had just made possible. 

_North._

**To Jamie.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After she buries her 20th-century life at Craigh na Dun, Claire arrives back at Leoch, knowing she'll have to explain herself to Colum, but wanting only to set things right with Jamie.

**It was eight days later that I rode into the courtyard of Castle Leoch, just as dawn was breaking.**

I could have gotten there sooner, certainly, but I had kept off the main roads to the greatest extent possible, taking no chances of falling into the hands of strangers. I’d had quite enough of _that_ , thank you very much, and while my stint with _one_ highland clan had turned out rather well on the whole, I had no desire to try my luck with another, let alone the English army. 

And, despite the danger and the fatigue of the journey, my heart had been light and ready to burst for all eight of those days.

…’Rather well’…

Understatement to the extreme.

_It had brought me Jamie._

As foolish and romantic a notion as it perhaps was, I had found myself many times on that hopeful, frantic journey wondering….was it _fate_ that I had come through the stones? That I hadn’t been able to get back to Frank?  Had some bizarre destiny planted the fascination with wildflowers in my mind that morning so that I could be _brought_ to Jamie, and him to me? Or had it all been mere luck? Could chance alone truly have resulted in this wonder? Could I honestly believe that mere odds should have allowed two people— so exquisitely attuned to one another, and yet separated by centuries and custom and country—to find one another in a dangerous, lonely universe?

But even as I had wondered endlessly in the long hours and days and nights on the Highland tracks, I knew it didn’t matter; made no true difference why or how by what means I had found myself in this place, this time. What mattered was the burning in my chest as I swung down from the horse; the need of him singing out from my heart; that he was the only thing my bleary eyes sought among the dozens of faces that gaped staring— _glaring_ —at me from around the mist-laden courtyard.

“Mary, Michael, and Bride–CLAIRE!”

It was not Jamie but Mrs. Fitz barreling toward me from the kitchen dooryard, eyes wide…and _wary_.  

So, my suspicions had been right, then— the rent party _had_ come directly back to Leoch. Part of me had hoped against hope that they would have continued further north, upon the secondary loop that Ned had pointed out to me that night upon the map. If they had, I would have arrived well before them—giving me precious, valuable time to convince Colum of the _perfectly logical_ (and fictitious) explanation for how I had been so _tragically_ and unexpectedly abducted from Ned and Murtagh and the rest and then escaped. It would have worked, I thought; as long as Jamie kept his silence. Would he?

> _I care for you, Claire._

My mind snapped back into awareness, back to the cold, stark realities of the present. I hadn’t arrived first, and thus the entire castle knew of my desertion.

Nonetheless, Mrs. Fitz had genuine affection in her voice as she clasped me hard to her bread-and-herb-scented bosom. “Oh, m’dear,” she said, sniffing, and voice tremulous with emotion, “they said—Och, child, they _said_ such terrible things—!“

I returned the embrace, feeling affection flood my heart, even in the same moment as fear and dead-panic. “What—what have they said about me, Mrs. Fitz?”

_Forewarned is forearmed, after all._

She pulled back to stare searchingly up into my face, whispering each word so as not to be overheard by the many watchful onlookers. “That ye’re an English spy—and that ye made off in the night wi’ no warning—and that ye came among us tae do the Mackenzie harm wi’ the knowledge ye’ve gleaned in our midst…”

Well, all things considered, I suppose I couldn’t expect fairer than that. I’d carefully formulated my story, rehearsed the details forward and back—all I could do was pray that Colum would buy it. And that I could talk to Jamie at the first possible moment.  

“I’m not a spy, Mrs. Fitz,” I said, as confidently and reassuringly as I could, bending to kiss her warmly on the cheek. “I can assure you, it’s all a dreadful misunderstanding.”

Lord knew I was not a grand actress, but Mrs. Fitz gave an enormous exhale of relief, looked both flustered and pleased as she took both my hands in hers. “I didna wish tae believe it of ye, m’dear—Such _treacherous_ behavior, I couldna—No, I DIDNA myself believe it, child, but Dougal said–”

“I understand perfectly, Mrs Fitz, _truly_ I do. I promise that I’ll explain the truth as soon as possible to Colum—I mean the laird. In the meantime,” I was literally swaying where I stood, “might I—trouble you for some food?—and perhaps a basin of water to wash? Before I attract more attention?”

The water would be pleasant, but it was food that I needed desperately. The bannocks I had filched from camp were long gone when I reached Craigh na Dun. Having no skill as a hunter, I had had to make do with what roots and berries and other edibles I could forage along the roadside. I had made it to Leoch on stubbornness and hope alone; but the reality was that I was very close to spent from hunger, and was having trouble keeping my legs and my vision aright.  

“Of course, of course!” Mrs Fitz said, already guiding me toward the kitchens. “Sweet child, starved and half-frozen.” She stopped sharply as we reached the doorway, looking apologetic. “Of course, I will have tae send word tae Himself at once that ye’ve arrived, Claire….given….weel….”

Given that I was still a presumed English spy who had just sauntered back into MacKenzie Clan HQ.

“Of course, Mrs. Fitz,” I said gently, “it’s the right thing to do.”

While she commissioned the boy known as Young Alec to take the message to the laird’s cambers and deliver my few belongings up to a spare chamber, my eyes swung once more around and around the courtyard. No Jamie.

Ten minutes was all I needed— _ten minutes_ to explain how wrong I’d been to run; that everything I’d spat at him that night had been a dreadful, vicious lie; that I missed him; that I wanted him; that I wanted to stay. And failing that, even _one_ minute just to be in his arms; to lay my head against his chest and feel his arms pulling me safe and warm against him. One minute just to hold him, and tell him with the gentle softness of my touch, with my eyes, that he hadn’t misjudged my affections; that he hadn’t been…’ _mistaken_.’

 _Come find me, Jamie,_ I prayed upward into the walls of Leoch. _Find me. Let me_ _tell you what’s in my heart. What was there all along._

I followed Mrs. Fitz inside and down the familiar corridors to the kitchens. She ushered me—ignoring the stares and whispers from the kitchen staff—into a small room behind the kitchen hearth that I had never noticed before. Less than a minute later, I was gulping a mug of thick beef broth (“Drink slowly, m’dear, ye dinna want griping  in yer wame, aye?”), while she and a teenage girl drew me a warm bath in a small wooden tub before the fire. While I had protested that cold water was perfectly sufficient, the warmth of it and the sweet scent of the chamomile soap were together as comforting and bracing as brandy to my weary body. She helped me wash and rinse my hair, then wrapped me thick towels with a second mug of broth as she conjured a clean gown, shift, and stays for me, and then helped me herself to dress.

She sat with me by the fire as I inhaled porridge with honey and a small loaf with soft cheese. Her manner was still kind and sympathetic, but her eyes remained sharp and leery.

“I willna hide from ye, Claire, that the laird is no’ likely tae speak your name with kindness. Dougal was cursing ye roundly tae anyone that would listen—Old Mr. Gowan has scarcely ceased wi’ shaking his head and bemoaning yer actions— and wee Jamie, weel, he’s barely spoken, hasn’t he?”

That jolted my heart into a frenzy. “ _Has_ he?” I said lightly, not meeting her eye.

“Jamie? Och, aye,” she said, nodding gravely. “He must ha’ been sore affected by it. I suppose ‘tis only right, wi’ his loyalty to his uncles, ken? But my Laoghaire— she was sae glad tae see him return (she carries quite the torch for him, ye see)—but he’s been silent and lifeless as a stone these past days—Has scarcely given her as much as a ‘Good day.’”

Perversely, that made my heart leap.  _He doesn’t want Laoghaire, not even for comfort. He doesn’t want just any woman. He wants…_

“Begging your pardon, Mrs. Fitz.” Young Alec’s head appeared around the door. “The Mackenzie requests Mistress Beauchamp’s presence in his study at her earliest convenience.”

I didn’t have the balls to ask Mrs. Fitz for a heaping four-finger glass of whisky, but Jesus H. CHRIST how I needed one.

‘Her earliest convenience.’ Which was to say, _immediately_. Which was to say my fate was to be decided at once. Which meant that if it were the laird’s pleasure, I would be expelled from the castle before I’d had the chance to even lay eyes on Jamie. Which meant—

_Dammit. God bloody fucking dammit._

* * *

 

**“Will ye do me the honor of sitting with me a time, Mistress Beauchamp?”**

I sat in the proffered armchair across the broad desk from Colum MacKenzie. The laird of Castle Leoch was—outwardly, at least— as serene as ever, his appearance decorous and tidy, despite the earliness of the hour. Despite my earlier need for a stiff drink, I couldn’t bring myself to touch the glass he’d had a servant bring me.

He sat there surveying me, that quiet, wry smile playing at his lips. I lowered my eyes and waited, looking awkwardly around the room by way of distraction from the tension in the room. The laird’s study was just the same: luxuriously crammed with its beautiful furnishings befitting the MacKenzie’s station and wealth. His birds cheeped and chirruped eagerly, apparently not at all sensible of the tension pervading the room.

“Déja vu,” Colum said at last.

“What? I mean—“ I stammered, trying to recover from his startlingly calm non-sequitur. “I beg your pardon, my laird?”

“Déja vu. It’s French,” Colum said evenly, eyes twinkling. “It means, ’already seen.’ But surely—“ he said, gracefully arcing an eyebrow, “you, having family in France, would know that?”

I returned his level gaze with one of my own, though I smiled sweetly. “I do apologize, my laird, I simply was taken off-guard. _Yes_ , I _do_ know what the word means.”

“Aye, verra good…excellent.” He nodded sagely, lacing his fingers together on the tabletop, not breaking eye contact. “Then you’ll perhaps know, too, why I should be experiencing such a phenomenon at this moment….”

I knew precisely what he was getting at, but I feigned polite ignorance, waiting for him to continue, to make the first move. 

He did. “You…in my study…playing the harmless ingénue…after appearing on clan lands under highly suspicious circumstances.” He raised his eyebrows. “It does seem—to ring a certain bell, does it not?”

My heart was racing with adrenaline, but I smiled a smile of simple regret and opened my mouth to speak—I _had_ rehearsed this all the way from Craigh na Dun, after all—but a pounding on the door made me all but jump out of my skin. 

“Enter,” Colum said, not seeming in the least bit surprised by the interruption. I regained my composure and remained facing forward. 

There came the squeal of hinges and the unmistakable snort behind me. “So it’s true then,” Dougal MacKenzie’s voice said said, low and hissing, “the _prodigal wench_ has returned.”

My mind was a constant stream of all the curses I’d ever learned, in every tongue, and I’d played with street urchins in _countless_  countries.It shouldn’t have surprised me, now that I came to think of it—Dougal was Colum’s right-hand, after all, and I had officially been in his charge when I’d made my escape— but it did. I had _prepared_ for Colum, for his savage cunning masked in level-headed civility; I was equipped for that: for the turn of phrase and the traps of language and logic. But Dougal was another matter entirely—I couldn’t trust myself to remain calm and collected in the face of his pugnacious and irreverent manner. But I had to bloody do it, prepared or no. 

I didn’t bother to turn around, just said simply, “I’m not a wench, Mr. MacKenzie. And yes, I have returned.” This exchange was too important to let him raise my ire. 

“Prodigal liar, then,” he said, appearing to my left and coming to stand next to his brother, arms crossed and eyes blazing as he glared down at me. “Conspirator. Agent.”

My gaze was still cool, my voice still polite, but I could feel the shards of glass in it, dangerous to both of us. “I swear to you, Mr. Mackenzie: I’m none of those things.”

He laughed, cruelly and vicious, bending at the waist to put his face mere inches from mine. “Ye expect us to just believe the mere word of a lying, filthy wh–”

“ _Will ye tell us,_ Mistress Beauchamp,” Colum said, his sharp tone a silent warning which Dougal must have comprehended at once, for he stepped back from me, and came to stand at Colum’s right hand, his own hand resting on his dirk handle.

Colum continued. “Will ye tell us what it was, _exactly_ , that made ye suddenly choose to leave the rent party….and just as suddenly return?”

I took a deep breath, ready. “You will certainly recall, my laird, that since my—“ (Filthy, barbarous abduction). “— _Arrival_ — with the Clan MacKenzie, so shortly after the death of my husband, it has been my desire to reach Inverness.”

The laird nodded. 

“It was my intention to join with friends there in hopes of beginning a new life among those I trusted. It was to them that I went the night I departed from the rent party. My longing for familiar faces had grown so strong, that I could no longer bear to wait. That is why I left. The simple desire to be among friends once more.” 

Dougal made a sound of deep derision, but Colum only nodded. “Would ye be so kind as to share with us their names?”

“Reverend Reginald Wakefield and his wife, Catherine, both old friends of my departed parents. I was a child, the last time I met with them, but there was no doubt in my mind that they would receive me. However–” I heaved a deep breath, pleased to feel a lump in my throat that lent emotion to my voice as I revealed the ‘sad’ news. “Upon arriving in Inverness, I learned that the Wakefields had taken ship for the Indies three years ago, to begin a Presbyterian mission on the island of—”

“How daft do ye think we are, woman?” Dougal growled, with a gesture so violent I shrunk back instinctively into my chair. “Ye _dinna_ have friends in Inverness and ye NEVER did. Else you’d have written to them upon your first arrival here.”

I straightened once more and did my best to appear innocently perplexed. “What makes you think I _didn’t_ write to them, Mr. Mackenzie?”

“Because—“ Colum interjected, his calm—earlier, such an asset to my nerves— now terrifying. Not a hand of clemency: a razor-thin _knife_ ,“—I make it my business to be aware of _all_ correspondence in and out of the castle. Oh, not necessarily the _contents_ ,” he said, seeing the shock and disapproval on my face, “just who is writing to whom while enjoying my hospitality—as is my right as laird.” He folded his hands. “And there has been _no letter_ to or from a Claire Beauchamp at any point since you arrived on MacKenzie lands.” 

I opened my mouth, but he cut me off with a soft, “—And if ye _did_ manage to communicate with them… it does make one wonder…” He gave me his most piercing gaze yet, stealing my breath, “—why a woman with _nothing to conceal_ should go to such lengths to do so… _undetected_?”

N _o. No no no no no, this was slipping so quickly away from my control._

“I do appreciate how all this must appear on the surface.” I could feel my heart racing with panic as I grasped at straws, desperate to remain calm and failing miserably. There was an audible quaver in my voice—damn it, damn ME!—“All I can do, my laird, is swear that I mean you and your clan no ill will, I have no ties or contact with the English government, whatsoever and I am willing to attest to those truths on _anything_ you wish to name. The simple fact, however it may appear, is I saw a chance to reach Inverness and I took it. That is all.”

“Liar,” Dougal hissed. “Admit it: You’re a paid informant for the English. Ye left our company ten days ago to report our goings-on to your superiors, and now you’re back, despite your sweet face and claim to innocence, wi’ fresh orders and OPEN EARS.”

I was panicking. “That—that is simply _not_ —”

He was looming over me again. I could smell his breath and feel it hot on my forehead. “Admit the truth, woman, and we’ll perhaps show ye some mercy. SPEAK!” 

A cacophony of sound filled the room and startled the birds. 

Dougal’s violent snarling: “Liar! LIAR!”

A whimpering sound. Me? 

Colum’s sharp, commanding, “I can think of no just reason—”

“LIAR!”

“—that a woman wi’ nothing to hide, should—” 

“Please—please—you must believe–”

Dougal’s hands on the arms of my chair. 

My eyes closed, the colors roaring in the dark. 

Stop. Just make it stop. Stop.  

“—DUNGEONS–”

“Please—“

“—Loosen your tongue–”

**“JUST TELL THEM, Claire!”**

I felt his voice jolt through my body like a wave of electricity and I whirled my head to see him standing in the corner, arms crossed. 

JAMIE. 

I nearly sunk to the floor in abject relief. He must have entered with Dougal, remaining silent. But he was here. _HERE_. 

Jamie. MY Jamie.

Floor be damned: I wanted to leap out of the chair and _fly_ into his arms—those strong arms that had held me and warmed me and kept me; Wanted to feel his skin against mine. Wanted—wanted so badly it felt like physical pain in my chest—to kiss him and feel his fingers in my hair. _To talk. To tell._ JAMIE. 

I forced myself to remain still, but inside I was thrumming with relief and joy. Everything would be alright, now—Jamie was here.

“ _Tell them_ , Mistress,” he said, and the coldness in that voice was so shocking I blinked as though struck. 

He had stepped forward a pace or two, so I could see that his eyes, too, were hard and icy, revealing none of his usual bright eagerness. Even more disturbing than this, they held an alarming intensity, some silent meaning I couldn’t comprehend. “It’s _alright_ , mistress. Tell them the truth of why ye fled.”

Another jolt, and I could do nothing but stare, my mouth gobbling open and shut.  _The truth?_  

For one wild, _ludicrous_ moment, I was screaming: ‘ _how does he know I was trying to get through the stones_?’

But he didn’t know; he couldn’t know; he could _never_ know that truth.

“I…. _CAN’T_.” I finally said, teeth gritted and voice tight. (Because I don’t know what in bloody hell you mean, you damned, wonderful—)

“Ye _can_ ,” he said, walking around to my right to stand with his uncles. “Go on, Mistress. There’s less shame in it than being mistaken and hung for a spy.”

“What’s this about, Jamie?” Colum demanded, his eyes flashing.

Dougal, too, was mounting in his own brand of fury. He took a menacing step toward his nephew. “D’ye mean to say that ye had further knowledge of her departure—Information that you chose to withhold??”

“Aye,” Jamie said, his eyes downcast. “Though it wasna mine to disclose, before.”

Dougal gave a guttural roar and made as if to lunge for Jamie behind Colum’s chair, but before he could say another word, Jamie raised a hand and looked directly at me with that same hard eye as before. “With your permission, Mistress?”

I saw it now, what that look meant.  

It said: _be silent._

I nodded and dropped my eyes to my lap, seeing the three of them behind the desk only from the upper periphery of my vision.

“Mistress Beauchamp fled that night…because _I spurned her advances_.”

I couldn’t have spoken a word if I’d tried. If I could have, it might have been a gut-punched, _‘…Jesus.’_

He went on, quiet and careful. “I begged her to forgive me—Told her truly what a fine, beautiful lady she is, and how much I admired and respected her—but that—my _allegiances l_ ay elsewhere.”

He placed a hard emphasis on that word, and I thought I saw a shifting, enough so that I chanced a glance upward to witness the significant look Jamie was sharing with Colum. To my astonishment and relief, I thought I saw something dawning in the laird’s expression. _Jesus Christ…this was going to work!_

“And—being, as we all know—a verra strong-willed and reckless sort of woman, Mistress Beauchamp departed in the night—” He turned his gaze to me, “—too hurt …and _vexed_ to remain…That’s how it was….aye, Mistress?”

I felt myself nodding but I was still staring down at my hands . I could see him in my periphery, his image blurring and distorting as the tears gathered. My throat was burning. With shame.

That’s how it was. Despite his phrasing, he wasn’t asking me. He was _telling_. _Hurt_ and _vexed_ —the mildest words possible for what I had done to him. His eyes told me the truth: _Furious_. _Heartbroken_.

God, what a fool I was. I’d come back, free in my own heart, ready to sing out a ‘ten-minute’ apology, then throw myself into his arms with hardly a thought for just how deeply I had savaged him with my words, my rejection.

His eyes were on the floor, now, and I wanted to tear my own guts out. 

_Beauchamp, look at yourself._

I was.

And I saw—vividly—how I had ground his heart into the dirt when he’d handed it to me so _tenderly and freely._

I had had my reasons at the time, yes. But God, how I had twisted the knife in his flesh. How I had ripped him.  

He’d made me a gift of himself and _everything he would ever be_ , and to his eyes, I hadn’t even glanced at it before flinging it into the fire.

_I did, Jamie! God, I DID glance. I looked and looked and it frightened me because I WANTED it. And I ran because I was married—because of Frank. But he’s gone now. He’s gone and I want YOU._

_Can’t you see that in my face? LOOK, Jamie. Find me, here._

“Well… that does seem to explain things.”

I looked up at Colum in surprise, wiping my eyes, which had been streaming. Apparently my regret and shame over what I’d done to Jamie was playing off rather nicely in support of the narrative that I was the lover that had been spurned. Even Dougal’s hostile posture had softened, though his look of distaste had not.

Colum, however, was not done. “Though it doesna altogether account for your return, this morning. If it was our Jamie’s disregard that prompted ye to flee…why come back?”

“I knew almost immediately,” I said quickly, marshaling my tremulous voice and picking up the narrative from Jamie, thanking him silently for handing me a lie with a fighting chance of success, “that it would look dreadful— _as it indeed does, I am well aware_ —to have forsaken my word to the MacKenzies on a mere _affaire de coeur._ ”  

I met eyes with Jamie and lost my breath for a moment. He seemed to sense that my looking at him disrupted my train of thought, and he casually began pacing before the bookshelves, moving to my right and slowly out of my line of sight.

I carried on. “Upon learning that my friends were unreachable, I _did_ consider going south to England—or to Edinburgh or some other place I might have cause to use my skills as a healer, but my honor prompted me to return–”

“Honor,” scoffed Dougal.

“—and to beg the forgiveness of the laird and permission to remain in his service. Which I do now, humbly, under whatever terms you demand.”

Silence reigned, interrupted only by the chirping of the birds.

Colum and Dougal  leaned their heads together, sharing a heated, whispered conference. I wanted desperately to turn in my chair and look at Jamie, touch his hand, thank him, but I forced myself to stay still.

At last, Colum straightened with a look of decision, and surveyed me intently for a long moment before saying, “You _may_ remain at Leoch, Mistress Beauchamp.”

My sigh of relief was far louder than I’d anticipated. “Thank you—THANK YOU, my laird.”

“BUT—” he said, firmly, “you will confine your movements within the walls of the main castle. And an escort will be reinstated until you have earned my forgiveness. And my trust.”

I nodded. “That is—more than fair, sir. I will respect your wishes.”

We made our farewells and I rose, taking the time to give my deepest, most respectful curtsy I could muster, but turned the very first second I was able, tuned so that I could see Jamie, ask where we might go to talk, alone.

But all I saw was the swish of a vanishing plaid.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[Next chapter, they talk, I promise]]


	6. Chapter 6

He couldn’t get enough air. 

No, he wasn’t just suffocating. He was _being suffocated,_ being pressed downward, screaming, but with no one to hear, no mercy from those cruel hands pinning him down. He struggled against them, struggled against the evil and the darkness of —

And then he was free and Jamie roared upward, lunging for his attacker’s throat. 

He came awake in mid-air, the cold air hitting his bare legs, reality still swirling and shifting in the darkness as he flung the intruder flat on the bed, pinning THEM, choking them with— 

 _“Ja—MIE—”_ came a strangled female voice, throat muscles working desperately beneath his hands. “—s’— _ME_!”

 _CLAIRE_.

He leapt backward off her and off the bed so violently that he staggered and would have toppled onto his backside if he hadn’t caught onto the tall dresser. He steadied himself and his mind, though both were reeling: 

_Leoch_

_His chamber_

_Dead of night_

_Claire Beauchamp_

_on his bed_

She had sat up, and in the dim, flickering light, Jamie could see that she was clad only in her shift, a flimsy shawl underneath her on the bed. 

His heart thundered— _melted—_  to see her; to see how lovely she was; to feel how deeply she roused him; to be hit with the aching of how much he wished to touch her—take her in his arms and tell her how much—how deeply, painfully—he’d _missed_ her these last three weeks—

But the ice around his heart solidified again almost instantly, the ice that had kept him sane for those three weeks; the ice that would continue to keep him alive as long as he was forced to see her around Castle Leoch, until he could get himself away to Lallybroch, away from her. 

And yet despite everything, that very ice shuddered to see the fear in her golden eyes, her hands clutched at her throat _._ Despite everything she’d done and said, his heart contracted with panic. His voice came out urgent and strangled. “Have I hurt ye, Mistress?” 

She dropped her hands at once and shook her head quickly. “No, just startled. _I’m not hurt_ , Jamie,” she said more firmly, seeing him unconvinced, searching her skin for marks. “I promise. I’m alright.” 

“Aye, well…I’m glad of it. I’m—I beg your pardon for—” he made a vague gesture toward the bed. “Ye took me unawares from my dream, and—I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright,” she repeated, giving him a weak smile. “No harm done.” 

He nodded, but the ice was firmly back in pace. “Tis time for ye to take your leave, Mistress Beauchamp.”

“No.” 

He shouldn’t have been surprised, not in the slightest.

“Mistress, ‘tis the middle of the night.  D’ye have _any_  idea what they’d say if ye were found in my—” He took a step toward her. “Your reputation would be _ruined_.”

Her expression was hard, yet still somehow flippant in that damnable way of hers as she shrugged, “Don’t have a very good reputation to uphold, anyhow.” 

“Dinna be joking about,” he snapped, holding out his hand. “Come. NOW.”  

 “ _I’m not leaving_. And before you threaten to carry me out yourself—” she said loudly, _JUST_ as he’d been opening his mouth to do just that, “—know that if you so much as try, I’LL scream at the top of my lungs and see who comes running. I don’t give a rat’s arse about my reputation, and I’M willing to let the chips fall as they may. Do you want me to do that?” 

_Damn her. DAMN her._

_“_ No.” 

“Well then,” she said, raising her eyebrows, “look’s like I’m staying.” 

Defeated and all the more angry for it, he threw his hands up in the air. “What in God’s were ye doing creeping about touching me in the night, anyway?”

She glared at him. “To _talk_  to you, of course.”

“ _Talk_?” He rubbed his hands backward through his hair to keep from throttling her in earnest. “Have ye _no_ scruples, woman? Christ, there are proper _times_ and _places_ for—”

“Oh, there _ARE_ , are there?  _DO_ be a dear and tell me _when_ and _where_ those might be, won’t you?” She made a sound of deep derision and crossed her arms sharply, apparently as angry and barely-restrained as he. “Jamie, you’ve spent THREE BLOODY WEEKS ignoring me—what else was I supposed to DO??”

_*Avoiding* you, mo nighean donn; not ignoring you._

> _But avoid her, he had, and quite effectively, at that. Colum’s explicit instructions had been that she was not to leave the castle walls, nor had she, else she certainly would have come to find him at the stables, where he had spent every possible moment, save sleeping and mealtimes, though he’d contrived to eat at odd hours. She had tried half a dozen times to approach him, in the corridors, in the great hall, in the courtyards, but he’d said no more than a cool, “Mistress,” of acknowledgment as he took his leave._
> 
> _Avoided, aye; never ignored. He had been as aware of her as of the daylight, her presence and absence fundamentally guiding his thoughts and activities. She was his light, whether he willed it or no._

“What else was I supposed to DO, Jamie?” she was repeating, now standing just a few feet from him, moving with him as he stepped to and fro away from her, to MAKE him look at her.

He did look at her, hard. “ _Leave me be._   _That’s_ what.” _Just go away. Go away from this Castle and rid me of the torment of having you near._

“ _Jamie_!” Frustration and desperation were battling for dominance in her wearied voice. “We _HAVE_ to talk!”

“We _dinna_  have to do any such thing. And, by all the saints,” he exclaimed, gesturing wildly at her body, desperate for anything to throw her off the scent, “even if we did, did ye have to come practically _naked_?? You’re in naught but your—” (thin-as-an-April-breeze) “—SHIFT and I’m—” 

He could feel the draft from the window sneaking up his legs, caressing every inch of bare flesh under his shirt, and his face _burned_. 

“—I’m not _presentable_.”

She didn’t budge an inch. “Put some damed clothes on, then.”  

When he didn’t immediately make a move, she rolled her eyes, turned, and walked to the bed, snatching up her shawl and jerking it around her shoulders and pulling it around her. 

Breasts now covered, she raised a defiant eyebrow.  He glared at her, but finally decided that even if he _should_ risk her threats and carry her bodily into the hall and bolt the door behind, best to do so with breeks on. He threw open the trunk at the foot of the bed and rummaged until he found a pair, turning from her as he laced them.

“Can we talk _now_?” she said, as he turned back to face her.

In contrast to her evident amusement, his own voice was low and nasty. “Go ahead.”

She blinked and dropped her eyes to her crossed arms. 

 _A dhia_ , how he despised himself in that moment—he wasn’t the kind of man that spoke this way to women, not least of all to a woman that he—but Jamie simply couldn’t shake the anger and hurt that coursed through him at the sight of her. She didn’t want him for a husband— _fine_ ; but could she not just stay away? _Go away. Just go away._

When she spoke, she met his eye straight-on, quiet, but determined. “Thank you. For helping me talk my way out from under Colum and Dougal,” her eyes were shining with sincerity. “I _truly_ couldn’t have done it without you.”

“You’re welcome. Anything else, Mistress?” He gestured toward the door.

She threw up her hands. “Jamie, for heaven’s _sake_ will please just hold your goddamn horses and give me a _chance_ , here? I’ve got things I need to ask you!”

He bowed his head.  _Stop being a child, Fraser._

“What is it ye wish to know, mistress?”

She heaved a breath and let it out, preparing herself, shivering. He strode to the fire and stoked it, to give them both a moment for it. The light danced on her face as he turned back to her, her face strained and urgent with her questions.  “ _Why_ did you help me with your uncles? After all I—You didn’t have to tell them anything. You had every reason to just leave me to my own fate. Why?”

He shrugged, uncomfortable, still fingering the poker. “Didna wish to see ye come to harm.”

“Harm?” That genuinely startled her. “You think they would have….ordered me tortured, you mean?”

“Perhaps not Colum….” He chose his words carefully. “But ye have—not the faintest idea of the—the _depth_ of the hatred Dougal bears the English, even more than most Scots. If he truly believed ye to be passing on dangerous information…” 

He shrugged again. He had no doubt that she would have come to some form of harm, whether at the hands of the MacKenzies or the English, had he not interceded. No matter how deeply she had hurt him, he didn’t wish to see any ill befall her. _Not ever._

“And do they truly believe you?”

“Aye, they do.”

She nodded slowly, then suddenly dropped her eyes and began fingering the hem of her shawl. “The ‘allegiances’ you spoke of…Was that…” Christ, she was squirming like a worm on a hook, “were you talking about Laoghaire?”

He snorted. “Certainly NOT.” The look on her face made him realize too late that infatuation with Miss MacKenzie would have been a _perfect_  ruse to hide behind; but then again, Miss Beauchamp always had a knack with catching him off guard. Without waiting for her to press, he grudgingly added, “It was my allegiance to _Colum_ of which I spoke. That’s why he took it to heart as he did”

“To _Colum_?” 

He couldn’t shake the glow that had lit the ice around his heart when her face had lightened instantly at his disavowal of Laoghaire MacKenzie. 

He cleared his throat, squeezing the poker. “Colum wishes that I should succeed him as clan chieftain, someday.”

“Oh! Oh, that’s—Jamie, that’s _wonderful_!” She looked genuinely delighted and impressed. “Such a great honor.”

“Perhaps, though it’s a honor I dream not of.” 

“No?”

“I’ve no intention of leading the clan, at least not until after Dougal’s tried his hand at it. He’d skin me alive for taking ‘his’ position, and I’ve no desire to start a clan war. The easiest way is for me to remove myself. Colum doesna ken that, yet, though.” 

“But how does—? What does that have to do with…?” 

“My taking a Sassenach _wife_ —” the word cut his throat like glass, “—would have negated my eligibility for clan leadership outright.”

She dropped her eyes. “I see.”

_Aye, I would have done it in a heartbeat, mo ghraidh._

He cleared his throat again. “And so, while Colum and Dougal dinna yet trust that you’ve no _other_ motive for being amongst us, same as before, they do believe my tale about why ye fled.”

Why she fled.

> _“I had a LIFE, and I’m far past due to return to it!”_
> 
> _“I don’t need your ‘protection,’ Mr. McTavish.”_

> And still, most cutting of all, the coldness in those golden eyes as she had said:  _“You were mistaken.”_

“I don’t expect your forgiveness,” she was saying, still facing him boldly, though he could see her twisting the fabric of her shawl again, faster and harder. “I don’t even expect you to speak to me again after this. _And I’ll go_ , tomorrow, if that’s what you want.” 

Christ, she meant it. she would leave. 

_Aye, Sassenach, just go._

“I’ll tell your uncles to hand me over to the English and be done with it. It doesn’t bloody matter anymore.” 

_Dinna leave me._

He thickened the ice around his heart. 

“But—” A deep breath, and then her voice was softer. I can’t go another day without saying.. _.I’m so sorry_ , Jamie.”

The depth of feeling in her voice was powerful enough to catch the breath in his throat… but the ice was powerful too. He only managed a quiet, hard, “What for?”

“For acting the way I did, the night I left. I was…” She paused, shaking her head, “— _vicious_ ….and you didn’t deserve that. Not at all. You are—were…  _are_ my friend, and I had no cause to treat you in such a fashion.” She took another deep, ragged breath. “The thing is—”

“Let’s just leave it be, aye?”Jamie didn’t think he could bear this. He moved from the fireplace to the window on the far side of the bed, quickly, that she might not see his face. “I accept your apology. There’s no point discussing it further, Mistress.”

“No _point_?” she whispered from behind him.

His anger flared and he had to grit his teeth. “Ye told me in no uncertain terms, that night, what your feelings were, Claire. Whether or not ye should have been _nicer_ about it is truly neither here nor—”

“But Jamie—” He could hear her moving closer to him, her voice now with an edge of eager desperation. “—I had good reason to leave, I _swear_ it, but—the most important thing you have to hear is—” Her voice was tremulous with emotion. “— you _weren’t_ mistaken— _and I came back for you._ ” Her hand came to rest softly on his arm.

“Jesus, Claire, can ye no’ _hear_ yourself?” He threw off her touch and twisted to face her, hating the rage and scorn coursing through him, but feeling utterly powerless to halt its path. “So, your grand plans of returning to your old life came to naught, and ye came crawling back to Leoch because ye imagined I would be better than _nothing_ , aye?” 

“Jamie,” she whispered, horrified, “it isn’t _like_ that.”

“Oh, no?”

“No, you bastard!” she hissed, on the brink of tears, following behind him as he stormed back to the hearth. “it BLOODY isn’t!”

 _“Tell me_ , then, Claire,” he demanded, keeping his voice low. He’d come to stand behind the big armchair—to put some goddamn space between them— and he gripped the back of it hard with both hands to ground himself, “where _did_ ye go?”

Silence. Fear in her whisky eyes. He could see the lie forming, see her closing against him in that glass face. 

“Ye left with haste and wi’ a purpose,” he pressed. “ _Why_?”

Her eyes were down. Her head was shaking hard, fast. “I—I can’t tell you why.”

“You could.” 

“I CAN’T!” 

He nodded, shaking all over. “Then why on EARTH should I trust your word?”

She looked up with glassy eyes.

“ _WHY_?” he repeated, more angrily, more pained with every choking syllable “When ye sleep in my arms, hold me wi’ your head on my chest of a morning and then shun me twice to my face before the next sunrise? When your face and your body told me one thing, and then your words another?” His hands were fists, quaking with fury and pain. “When ye _STILL_ willna tell me where it is ye came from or where it is ye went? Why should I believe a word you say, Claire?” 

_Silence._

“TELL ME!!”

“You shouldn’t.” 

Her sudden quiet startled him and he searched her face. No longer angry and defensive, no longer controlled. He watched it fall, moment by moment, into a blank of despair.  She continued her descent, apparently helpless to stop it, and sank down onto the trunk at the foot of his bed. “You shouldn’t—you have no reason to believe me.” She released a gasping sob and buried her face in her hands. 

A long silence, punctuated only by the heart wrenching sounds of her sudden brokenness. 

Heart-wrenching. His heart was wrenching apart to see her in pain. 

He tried to be indifferent, to see in this another charade; but after a long moment, he couldn’t help but speak, to reach out to her. “Claire?”

She gave no answer, only wept harder and shook her head back and forth.

Another minute. 

“Why d’ye say I shouldna believe ye, Claire?”

Silence. 

 _Gently._ “Why?”

 _Why, mo nighean donn_? 

“Because—” Heaving breaths. Crying. “If I told you the—truth, Jamie—the real, actual truth,” she sobbed still harder into her hands, her voice a strangled wheeze, “You’d _never_ believe me…you’d think me completely—completely mad…”

 _Would_ he? Could he ever believe this marvel of an individual to be out of her mind? A lunatic? No. That simply couldn’t be. Whatever it was that she’d concealed, whatever it was she didn’t want to tell him, _needed_  to tell him—it was truth. 

Slowly, he moved from behind the chair, slowly settled beside her on the trunk. 

She exhaled, moved and overcome. “Jamie….”

He couldn’t touch her, wasn’t sure what he would do if he touched her; but he was glad that she knew he was  near. She was right, after all: whatever else passed between them, she _was_ his friend. “I’m here. Tell me…. _lass_.”

Lass. 

It was the first time he had called her anything close to an endearment since she’d returned to Leoch—no, since the night she left—and the saying of it— _Christ_ , it sent a bolt of blazing lightning into the ice around his heart. 

 _My_ _lass_. 

The crack was deep, deep enough so as not to be repaired, smoldering, spreading.  

_My own lass._

“The woman of Balnain.”

“The— _what?”_ She had blurted it with no preamble, and he yanked himself back from the melting of his heart to try to understand. “The—Welshman’s song? What of it?”

“I am the woman of Balnain.”

He gobbled for a moment, looking sidelong at her. “Well, the—the words actually translate more to ‘I am the _wife of the laird o_ f Bal—”

She shook her head, eyes squeezed tight. “No. No, that’s not what I mean.” 

“I…dinna understand.” 

“I. AM. her.” she whispered, looking up at the ceiling and blinking hard.  “I, Claire Beauchamp, _AM_ the woman of Balnain.”

The room seemed to crystallize and go silent. Even the fire was muted out, a faint humming in the distance. 

“The truth… _Jamie_ ….The truth is that I am not of this time.” She was still shaking with sobs but was nonetheless speaking with an intensity that he’d never heard from her, not ever before.  “I woke up one morning in the year nineteen hundred and forty-five…and I landed in seventeen forty-three.” She could barely get the words out. “I woke up in Inverness and went searching for a flower I’d seen on the hill of standing stones…” 

She recited the eerie song, her voice—God, her voice—

> “I stood upon the hill, and wind did rise….   
> I placed my hands upon the tallest stone  
> and travelled to a far, distant land,

….but Jamie….it wasn’t a ‘distant land.’ It was a distant _time. The eighteenth century.”_

He was gaping at her. She gave another desperate sob, her eyes boring into him, despairing. “That’s the truth, Jamie; The truth of where I came from. I—traveled—back—traveled here—in _time.”_

_Nineteen hundred…and forty…._

_Back…_

_in time….?_

There were tales, of course—folk being stolen away by the fairies and being taken to times not their own—

—but as an educated man, he’d always—surely those were only—

But with a jolt akin to being kicked by a great beast, all of it flooded into his mind at once, bowling him over: 

> _The strange shift she had worn_
> 
> _Her lack of friends and relations_
> 
> _Her inability to account for her background, her intentions among us_
> 
> _The way she had asked for the town, that night we’d found her—a town that must have been visible, two hundred years hence_
> 
> _The way even the most common words and customs seemed foreign to her_
> 
> _The daft words she herself had used_
> 
> _The way this remarkable woman had fallen into his life…._
> 
> _The way this woman like no other he’d ever encountered in his lifetime…_

“I was born in nineteenth hundred and eighteen,” she was saying intently, breaking apart, “I was born two hundred years from now.” She make a desperate sound at his silence—anger—fear—tragedy. “Jamie, d _o you hear me_?”

But Jamie heard her words as though from under water; silently reciting the rest of the Welshman’s song

> _But one day, I saw the moon come out_  
>  and the wind rose once more,  
> so I touched the stones  
> and travelled back to my own land  
> and took up again with—

“You’ve been trying to get back to him,” he moaned, the horror and the grief of it washing over him in a landslide, “’ _the man ye left behind.’_ ”

She gasped, then _gaped_ at him, utterly dumbstruck. She couldn’t speak for a long time. Nor could he; could only hear the wailing of his heart. 

When she did finally find her voice, it was strangled and tear-choked. “You— _believe_ me??”

“Aye,” he said at once, his own voice far from strong, but confident in that, at least. “I do believe ye, Sassenach.”

Beyond the memories, all the evidence of her _otherness_ running through his mind like a vision, he could see it in her eyes; he could see it in the slant of her shoulders, broken, but no longer on guard, no longer holding back; he could see it across her glass face, finally free of secrets and lies. Finally free. Aye, he believed her…

…and the truth broke his heart all over again, into more pieces—millions more—than they’d been before. She was _married_. She wasn’t free to give her heart—Nor had she been; not from the first moment he’d laid eyes upon her. Claire Beauchamp was another man’s wife.

“Forgive me, lass,” he murmured, rising and going to the fire, trying to keep his voice from breaking, to keep from showing her his despair. He understood, now; understood why she had acted the way she had, but the pain was too great. He had only enough strength left to appear strong. “Stay here for the night—I’ll find another bed.” 

“Forgive?” came her voice behind him, truly bewildered. “Whatever for?”

He had tears in his eyes and he blinked them away fiercely, gritting his teeth. “I canna even bear to think of the—the _fool_ I made of myself in your eyes back wi’ the rent party. Proposing marriage, professing love, when ye already had—”

“No!” she said, jumping to her feet and wiping her own tears away, hard. “Jamie, no, _please_ —that’s what I’m trying to tell you—you _weren’t_ a fool.” 

She came close to stand beside him, and after a long pause, she _took his hand._ “Jamie…..you…  _weren’t_   _mistaken_.”

He wasn’t—? He hadn’t been—?

He couldn’t shake off her touch. Couldn’t look at her. Couldn’t even move at all from the inrush of feeling and hope and—

“I felt—just the same as you, Jamie—” she said, carefully but firmly through her tears and emotion. “—from the—God, the first time you held me here at Leoch,—From then onwards, I felt what it was between us.”

 _A Dhia, just slay me now, lass_. _Kill me here and let my heart be gone, rather than this torture_. He felt like a boy, so eager for her love, and so frightened to hope for it.

“That’s why I left that night—” She was squeezing his hand so hard it hurt, and was staring up at him, her eyes unblinking and spilling with tears. Jamie was staring into the fire, trying to keep control of himself, but she wouldn’t look away. “—because _I cared for you too_ and I felt—” She gave a wracking sob, “— _so ashamed_ because it was like he—my husband—like Frank never—even existed to me—” 

_She cares for me._

_She cared for me all along._

“—And so when you—when you said those things—poured out your heart to me, and I—wanted to pour mine out to you—and I had to get away—and I ran—”

He was squeezing her hand to keep from flying apart. 

_She ran because she felt she must_

_She cares for me._

“—and I was praying the whole time I rode it would have been a dream—that I would touch the stones and wake up, but it wasn’t a dream—you were real—and what I _felt_ for you was real—”

_—Jesus—_

_“—_ but I couldn’t have lived with myself if I’d come back _—”_

__She ran because of duty ._   
_

Her hand in his shook. His hand in hers shook.

__Claire cares for me, too._ _

“—then I got to the stones and I—couldn’t get through—” She was sobbing, harder than she had yet sobbed in his presence, panic and weariness overtaking her such that she swayed next to him. “—I couldn’t get back—was pounding on that stone for hours— _hours—_ but I—I couldn’t get— _couldn’t_ —”

“Oh, lass—” And before he could stop himself, he was clutching her tight against him, comforting her, holding her, trying to shield her from the sobs that wracked her body.  “I’m so sorry…Claire, I’m _so sorry_ …”

God, and he was, too. The pain and turmoil she’d undergone, that had been tearing her apart with no one to help keep her sane; no one to keep her from being alone. He held her, forcing himself to think only of her. “It’s alright….shhhh, it’s alright… Christ, I’m so sorry.” 

She pressed her cheek hard into his chest. “Jamie, I was so ashamed.” 

“Ashamed? Lass, you’ve nothing to be—”

She pushed back from him and staggered away toward the fire,  just far enough to look him in the eye,. “Because I was _relieved_ —Jamie— I was RELIEVED that I couldn’t go back to him—” She raised her hands aimlessly to the level of her eyes, watching them quake. “—RELIEVED—and I think part of me will be ashamed of that all my life—But I don’t care.”

Jamie didn’t say a word, just let his eyes cling to the sight of her face, open and breaking along with his. ‘Breaking,’—no, he was being utterly torn apart by the gathering of joy and hope, the banishing of the anger and pain. His heart was a gushing torrent, now—the skeleton of the ice wall still standing, but with the current clearly visible beneath, roaring to be free. 

“The fact is that I _was_ relieved. Relieved that I could come back to you.” 

_She cares for me_

_She left from duty._

_She came back._

_She—_

“Jamie….?” she begged, repeating the word like a prayer of supplication. “Jamie…..?”

“Aye?” he croaked.

“Jamie, I’m so sorry—I hate what I did to you— the look on your face when I denied you and—shamed and—wounded you—it killed me—”

“Dinna spare a thought for it,” he started to say, but she quieted him, begging to be allowed to speak uninterrupted.

“—And I can’t bear how this will seem—Like it _does_ seem,” she amended. “You said it yourself: my plans fell through and I’ve come crawling back to you. But that isn’t true.” She took a deep breath and her eyes spoke true to him as she said, strong and clearly even through the gasping and the tears: “ _I love you, Jamie_.”

The ice wall shattered. 

_She loves me._

_She loves me._

_SHE LOVES ME._

“I love you—” she was saying, over and over crying, laughing as the joy of it rushed through her,”—and I care for you—and I respect you, and—” She reached a hand toward his face. “— and I want to marry you.” 

Before he could reach back to her, she was kneeling before him, taking his hand, bowing her forehead over it. “I haven’t anything—I’m no one, in your world— but all I have, and all I will _ever_ have, they’re yours—if you’ll still have me.”

Later, he never would quite recall the exact moment when he moved; the thoughts that went through his head at seeing Claire before him, asking him to share her life. All he could recall was the feeling of her in his arms, the burning in his heart as he crushed her to him; the way he could barely speak the most important words of his life: 

“Yes, _mo chridhe—_ All my life, _yes_.”

And then he was kissing her. He was kissing her and kissing her and kissing her and feeling her pressed against him. Feeling her kissing him back, the joy and relief in her tears. Sinking back into the armchair, letting her straddle him, holding her and kissing her and drinking her into him.

The rasp of her voice as she clutched his face and groaned into his mouth. “I want to stay with you. I need to be beside you tonight.”

The agony of forcing himself to slow, to still. “No, lass, ye must go now,” he whispered, though his traitorous body kissed her deeper and pulled her closer. “Else I’ll have ye here… _now_ …..”

“Have me,” she moaned, bringing his hand up to her breast—Jesus Christ, the nipple was hard, shockingly firm even through her shift, and she groaned so exquisitely as he ran his thumb round and around it, as she moved her hips against him with shocking urgency. “— _Have me_ —Jamie, please—”

He felt those words strike directly down into his cock and he thought he would die of wanting her, but he managed a soft laugh and pulled away. She gave a growl of urgent protest, of need, and he felt the same rip through his own body at remaining separated from her another moment…but he forced himself to take her face in his hands. “Ye must go. Because as much as I want to be inside ye right now—you’re so much more to me than that, _mo chridhe_.”

He kissed her, slowly and gently. Kissed the tears on her cheeks. Felt her kiss his as her fingers ran across his face, his hair, claiming him as she settled, quieted to a slow burning, her forehead against his. “What does it mean?” she whispered, her hair falling ‘round them. “Mo…cree?”

“ _Mo_ c _hridhe._ My heart.” He leaned his forehead against hers; the tip of his nose against hers. “It means, my heart.”

She took _his_  face, then, her words strong and sure. “You’re more to me than that to me, too; than _anything_ else, any _one_  else… _mo chridhe, Jamie._ ”


	7. Chapter 7

“No, no, no, wait, hold—HOLD _ON_ —” I wheezed, laughing so hard I could feel tears forming. “I WILL get this right, damn it!”

I could feel him shaking with laughter (his AND mine) his head bobbing like a cork on my lap. “Sixth time’ll do it, aye?” 

“FIFTH, you ginger _arse_!”

We were heaped on a pallet of old blankets and feather mattresses in a garrett alcove high in the castle eaves, the kind of place where odds and ends tended to get thrown and then forgotten; the kind of place two lovers could easily be forgotten, too.

Lovers. I still couldn’t believe it, _any_  of it: the pain and aching of the weeks of silence between us; then that furious night in his room—the fury of his pain, the agony and release of my revelations, the exquisite joy of taking him into my arms and knowing all was well. This man, strong and kind, gentle and deadly in one, still loved me, and he wanted to spend his life with me. I ached now from happiness, from the unreasonable perfection of the life that I’d been granted; ached with happiness that there was now utter truth between us, nothing held back. Not even silliness.

“Alright, ALRIGHT, here goes.” I took a deep breath, my lips still quivering with laugher, and looked him in the eye, ticking off each word on my fingers. “JAMES….”

“Aye,” he grinned, blue eyes sparkling, “ye’ve got that one _well_ down.”  

I stuck out my tongue at him before continuing intently. “James…ALEXANDER…” Here’s the tricky one. “M—Mmmmmm—?” I screwed up my face, raising my eyebrows as I said slowly, “Mmmm….acccK—?”

He grinned and gave the tiniest shake of his head

“—K-ALLLLLCOLM MACKENZIE FRASER!!” I finished in a slur of triumph.

“Well done, lass,” he laughed and turned on his side toward me, his cheek on my thigh. “Now ye ken who I am, we can be marrit!”

I did know who he was, no matter what name he went by. And _if I’d been a little hazy on trivial details before, we had spent the last hour learning each others’ histories and families_. Still, it was certainly good to know the true name of my husband-to-be. I smoothed his cinnamon curls back from his face, reciting more softly. “James….Alexander… Malcolm…. _MacKenzie_ ….Fraser.” He had his eyes closed, following my touch with small, contented hums. “It’s a beautiful name, Jamie.”

He smiled. “Common enough, but it’s served me well, thusfar.”

“Fraser,” I repeated. “ _Claire_ Fraser.”

He opened his eyes, such feeling and joy written there. “Now, _that_ is a beautiful name.”

“I rather like it too. Though, you know, in my own time, some women are starting to keep their own last names after they marry.”

He blinked. “Is….If that’s what ye _wish_ —”

“No, no,” I said quickly, squeezing his shoulder with a laugh. “I don’t. I _want_ to share a name with you.”

He smiled, that sweet, sleepy, boyish smile. “Then I shall count it a gift. A gift from my beloved, who is, herself, the greatest gift of my life.”

Bloody charmer. And the remarkable thing was, he meant it. “Do you wish to know more about it?” 

“More about what, Sassenach?” 

“My time. Where I come from” 

He straightened a bit at that. “Aye, I do. What it’s like, what’s changed, what hasn’t.” 

“Anything you wish to know, Jamie, you have only to ask.” 

He nodded. “In time,” he said simply, stroking me gently. “I’m curious to learn from ye; but we’ve a lifetime for it, aye?” 

I bent down to kiss him. “Yes. Yes, we _do_.” 

We sat in silence for a long, peaceful time, the weight of him warm on my lap and legs. We _did_ have a lifetime for talking, and yet so little time _now._ We’d had scarcely two hours alone, in fact, in the day and a half since I’d crept shamelessly into his chamber. My restriction to the castle walls and Jamie’s duties at the stables had left us with few opportunities to see one another without rousing suspicion, and that was paramount. We had to tread carefully until Jamie had the chance to speak with Colum, to give an explanation of how the apparent ice between us had transformed so swiftly into betrothal. No small task, that, and Colum had been detained in meetings with the visiting Grant delegation all of the previous day. 

And so, we’d been discreet: a stolen moment in an alcove, here; a shared glance across the great hall, there; Jamie’s lips on mine, his hands cupping my face as he bade me goodnight at my chamber door with a husky, “ _Goodnight, mo chridhe;” t_ his blissful hour of solitude in lieu of the noon meal, an _hour_ with Jamie (Murtagh standing sentinel at the end of the corridor, Lord bless him). Even a _moment_ with Jamie was beautiful, like….like…Yes: like he was my first love—the passion, the sweetness; the inability to keep from grinning foolishly whenever I was with him. 

“Christ, this is NOT proper,” Jamie said suddenly, loosening his grip and making me just as unexpectedly aware that his arms had been around my waist, his hands gently cupping my arse, his face mere inches away from my nether parts.

“Proper-SHMOPPER,” I shrugged, bending down to kiss his temple. “And it’s fairly damn proper from my point of view, since you insist on keeping me an honest woman.” 

Because the ‘passion’ we’d shared in our hour together, despite my best efforts to have my way with my new fiancé, was all of the _fully-clothed_ variety.

“Believe, you me, Sassenach, I want ye…” He sighed and his hands spasmed as though to grab onto something. “Want ye so badly I have to catch my breath from it, sometimes… ”

“If it’s what you wish, darling, so be it. It’s rather sweet, actually—Just as long as it’s not stemming from some fool notion about my _virtue_.” I gave him a wry grin. “I _was_  married before, so I’m no more a blushing virgin than you are!”

“Aye, well….” He gave a sharp cough and shifted to sit upright against the opposite wall of our alcove. He had a strange expression on his face. 

I stretched and rested my back against my own wall, my legs parallel to his. I gently touched his foot. “What’s the matter, Jamie?”

“This _is_ truly what ye want, Sassenach, aye? To be wed to me?”

“Yes,” I said at once, squeezing his leg. “ _You’re_ what I want.“ I ran back through my words for an explanation. “And I’m sorry I alluded to Frank, I just—”

He shook his head. “Dinna ever apologize for that. It’s part of ye.” 

But it was clear enough that mention of it had brought a shadow over his heart. 

“I love you.” I tried to meet his lowered gaze. Did he still doubt. “Do you believe me?

“Aye,” he said at once, giving a genuine but troubled smile. “There is a truth and a trust between us now. I believe it. And I love you too, mo nighean donn. It’s only…” 

I supposed if he could believe I came from the future, he could believe what he’d so vividly felt between us on the road. Still… “What’s troubling you, Jamie?” 

“I just wish to say that I’m sorry, about Frank. That ye couldna—that the way back to him was barred.”

I wanted to make it into a joke, but couldn’t. “I can’t see why you _should_ be sorry, to be perfectly honest.”

“Frank wasna cruel to ye, aye? He was— _is_ a good man?”

“Yes. A very good man.”

“And ye loved him.”

“I did. I—do, still—in—in a way—”

“Aye, I suppose ye must. And that’s why I’m sorry, _in a way_ , because it’s still a loss for ye, one that ye must bear.” 

I nodded, a lump in my throat. He was right: no matter how quickly or wholeheartedly I’d decided to come back to Jamie, Frank would always haunt me, in some way. I hoped he could start over—that I wouldn’t haunt _him_. 

“If ye find ye ever—need to talk about him,” Jamie was saying, his brows furrowed so sweetly in concern, “dinna hesitate, aye?”

“That’s very gallant of you,” I laughed, a little hoarsely as I swallowed. 

“Well,” he laughed, gleaming with that lively energy I adored so greatly, “mind, ‘tis easy for me be magnanimous, seeing as how the man willna be born for two hundred years.” He sighed and looked me in the eye. “But suffice it to say, for the love between you and me, I couldna go further wi’out saying that I understand this is all verra complicated. I wish us to be... _partners_ , to share our hearts wi’ one another, as my parents did. So, just know that whatever it is ye might be feeling is alright—and I shall do my best to understand—and help, if I might.”

“I almost wish that the stones _had_ worked.” 

It was out of my mouth before I truly considered it, and I saw a ripple of pain pass through him before he marshaled himself with a gruff, “Why’s that?”

“So that I could have chosen you,” I said frankly.  He smiled in relief, a genuine, broad, glowing smile, but I went on. “If I could have felt that the stones would have worked, and stopped myself, thought of you and _truly_ chosen you…Lord, I don’t know. Perhaps my guilt over Frank would have been greater, but I can’t bear the thought of you, now, thinking you were…. _second choice_.”

He beckoned to me. “Come here to me, _mo chridhe_.”

I crawled over until I was sitting curled sideways on his lap, the two of us heaped together in the sunlit window. He laid a warm palm on the side of my cheek and gently stroked my hair back from my face, murmuring into the top of my head. “Even if I _was_ second choice,” he said firmly, “t’was a second choice because of your duty, and that’s no shame to you _or_ to me. If I’d known the truth, I’d have taken ye there to the stones myself; no matter how painful it would have been to deliver ye back to the arms of another man.”

“You... _really_ would have done that?”

Aye. Couldna have done otherwise. Ye had to try. It was your duty, and ye discharged it. And now, your conscience can be clear, as can mine.”

“Thank you,” I murmured, feeling the trickles of absolution flowing over me. I wrapped my arms around his waist and soaked him in; his scent, his warmth, the cadence of his voice. “We’re lucky. We’re so very lucky,” I whispered.

“We’re _blessed_.”

A sun-soaked eternity later, he gave my back two quick taps and made to rise.

“Oh, don’t go,” I moaned playfully, wrapping my arms tighter around his neck. “I’m so _COLD_.“ I made a dramatic pout that would have impressed _any_ Hollywood director. “Stay and keep me _warm_ , Mr. MacTavish!”

He snorted, laughing fondly, remembering. “You’re blazing as a wee coal, Sassenach,” he said, extricating himself only to lean overtop me, pressing me gently back into the nest of blankets. “But as much as I’d love to stay and let ye _light me up_ a bit, I’ll be late if I dinna leave now. ‘Tis an important meeting, aye?”

It bloody well _was_. “Are you nervous?”

“Of marrying you?” he asked with a grin, nipping my neck.” Aye, _terrified_ , feisty wee beastie.”

“No, not me,” I laughed, though the anxiety gripped my gut. “Of your talk with Colum.”

“Oh aye, a bit. He willna be best pleased at my choice—” He ran the back of his hand down my cheek. “But surely it canna come as a complete shock to him that taking over the clan hasna been my ambition, particularly wi’ Dougal looming large so near at hand.”

“So, you think he’ll give us his blessing?”

“I have my hopes set on cold acquiescence, myself,” Jamie said, frankly. “If he puts up a skelloch, my argument is that wi’ the Sassenach spy in my _bed_ , I can more easily keep my eye on her; keep her from doing anything too treacherous.”

“Treacherous? _Heavens, no_.” I rose with him and kissed him chastely, then cupped him in a way that was anything BUT chaste, relishing his moaning gasp. “ _Wicked_? Oh, _most_ certainly.”

* * *

 

“Thank you for meeting wi’ me, uncle.” **  
**

The Laird of Clan MacKenzie was resplendent, as usual, in his furs and frock coat. In addition, though, his manner this afternoon was uncharacteristically bright, his eyes twinkling and a smile playing at his mouth from across the broad desk. “So, nephew: I assume you’re here to ask permission to return to your estate.”

“How did ye ken that, uncle?” Aye, and that was part of it, was it not ? Jamie was free. He _could_ go home. To Jenny. To Lallybroch. Aye, and he would. Just not alone.

“It’s been clear enough from your manner these last few weeks that you could no longer be happy at Leoch wi’ Mistress Beauchamp about.” 

Jamie flinched at her name, but Colum didn’t seem to notice, steepling his fingers and looking on with seemingly kind approbation.  

“Well, uncle, she isna so—”

“It was good of ye to come to the lady’s aid, lad,” Colum said gently, “Has she been pestering ye?”

“No,” he said emphatically, “Not at all, though I thank you for your concern, uncle.” _The time has come, Fraser._  “The thing is—”

Colum held up a hand. “Ye dinna need to play so near the chest, lad. I ken it’s been hard, and it would be better on ye were she to be gone.” He beamed. “And I’m happy to say I’ve a solution.”

Jamie’s wame clenched.   _A solution? Involving Claire?_  

Colum gestured to a servant in the corner, who came forward with a decanter of whisky. To Jamie’s astonishment, Colum was heaving himself out of the chair and hobbling to come around the desk and stand beside him. 

He rose and held out staying hands. “Uncle, sit, please, ye dinna have to—”

“Nonsense, it’s an important occasion, lad.” The laird took a glass from the tray and handed one to Jamie. The noble kinsman raised the whisky and sighed in a wide, proud way. “A toast: to my dear sister’s son and his wife-to-be.” He drank. 

Jamie followed suit, for no other reason than to hide the shock that must be visible on his face. _WIFE-TO-BE?? How did he know??_

Colum, in another surprise, seemed _pleased_ by Jamie’s stunned silence. “Och, so ye _did_ piece it together, then?” He roared with laughter and inclined his head with a fierce pride. “ _That’s_ why you’re fit to lead this clan, lad. Clever and cunning, and it does ye much credit.  _Slainte_.”

His uncle drank again, but it was _Jamie’s_ head reeling. _Had someone overheard him and Claire in the last day and a half and reported back to the laird? Was this kind, approving performance naught but a game? Was Jamie about to be castigated for having the audicity to suggest wedding the sassenach?_

And yet the laird seemed so genuine in his congratulations. He positively glowed as he set his glass back on the tray and clapped Jamie on the arm. “Now, you’ll see soon enough for yourself that Edina is a fine lady, if a wee bit—”

“Who?” Jamie blurted, though the realization was already plummeting down upon him. 

“Edina Grant, your—” And like a stormcloud over the sun, Colum’s expression darkened to a deadly, steely grey. He all but growled it: “Your _betrothed_.”


	8. Chapter 8

“Betrothed,” Jamie rasped as the clockwork wheels thudded into place in his mind. 

_The Grants._

_The delegation of Grants that Colum had been—_

Colum nodded, smiling calmly, but his eyes were still narrowed in razor-sharp suspicion. “All settled, save the vows, and that comes tomorrow.” 

_TOMORROW._

_Colum had arranged for—_

Fury. Raging, blistering fury tore through Jamie, and he had to grip the arm of his chair to keep from letting it explode from him. “Might I ask, uncle,” he said, with what he hoped was a good approximation of cordiality, “why ye didna think to seek my counsel on this _before_ matters were ‘settled.’”  

The laird paused only a moment before answering, cool and collected. “Ye should be thanking me, wee Jamie. This is a good match. An _important_ match _.”_

“Important enough that it didna occur to ye to even ask my _leave_  before selecting a wife for me?” Jamie tried to keep his voice steady but the waves of anger lurked barely below the surface. “Before determining the course of the remainder of mylife?”

Colum’s words were still quiet, but as sharp as a knife blade through the still of the room. “You’re to be laird, Sheumais MacBrian. If it’s the remainder of _your_ life, it’s the next life of the clan as well. As future leader of the MacKenzies, your life is not your own, anymore.”

Jamie snapped. 

“I’ve no intention to be laird, and my life is no one’s save my own, God’s, and those who have claim to my protection. I came here today only to _inform_ ye that I’ve proposed marriage to Claire Beauchamp and she’s accepted.”

The silence before Colum spoke was excruciating. “Explain yourself,” he said delicately. “…boy.” 

“’Boy,’ it is?” Jamie couldn’t help a wry, scornful laugh. “A moment ago, I’m to be laird, and now –“

“And _now_ ,” Colum interrupted, his voice still alarmingly controlled, but the eyes showing the fire about to pour forth, “ _like a child_ , you’ll answer to your elders for your actions.”

Jamie bit back a retort that would certainly have sounded childish, and instead chose to remain silent.

Colum’s eyebrows were knitted hard. “She’s wi’ child, then?”  

“No! Christ—God in Heaven, no!” Jamie’s shock and embarrassment made his voice squeak like a wee lad. “I’ve no’ lain wi’ her. _I swear it on my mother’s grave_ ,” he said more sharply. 

“Doesna matter to me if you’ve swived a hundred lassies,” Colum said. “What matters is that ye deliberately deceived me here in this room three weeks ago in implying that your allegiance to the clan outweighed any liaison between you and Mistress Beauchamp.”  

Jamie couldn’t remain stoic in the face of Colum’s quietly seething wrath. “Aye, I _did_ deceive ye, uncle, though wi’ no malice in my heart. See, it—” He took a deep breath. Everything, then. “I said those words in anger, but the feelings between Mistress Beauchamp and me are mutual, and have been growing for some time. On the road wi’ the rent party, we had a misunderstanding, and she left—then had a change of heart and chose to come back to see if the two of us might set things right. My heart was hard against her, that day here in the study wi’ Dougal, as you certainly will have seen, and I said what I did only so you and Dougal would understand the true reason why she left, and that there was no cause to suspect her of treachery.” He met his uncle’s eye directly. “But two days ago, Claire and I _did_ set things right—more than right—and she agreed to become my wife.”

Colum nodded and reached for a quill. “An agreement that can easily be broken.”

Jesus, the calm and heartlessness of that statement. He all but snarled at his uncle,  “ _Absolutely not_.”

“We’ll provide her wi’ a pension, if we must, to see that she’s—”

“No.” He was practically shouting, barely able to keep his seat. “I love her, uncle. I love Claire—and I came to speak wi’ ye today to tell ye so, and tell ye of my intention to marry her. I had no inkling of your designs for an alliance wi’ the Grants, and I’m sorry for the ill timing, but I’d never have consented even if Mistress Beauchamp were no’ involved. I’ll not be swayed—not for any price.”

Colum’s steely calm snapped and he snarled, leaning forward, white with rage, his finger pointed in accusation at Jamie’s face. “I got you your freedom—”

“Uncle, ye must—”

“—saved you from the noose, from rotting in prison,” he snarled, shaking his head slowly, like a beast about to charge, “and _this, THIS_ is how ye repay me?”

“And I’m verra grateful,” Jamie said, marshaling his voice into calm, “but I didna—”

“Did ye think that I would risk my neck and clan and name only out of the goodness of my heart? Did ye think there would be no obligation expected of ye in return, boy?”

“If I deigned to presume,” Jamie hissed between teeth clenched so hard as to be painful, “the love for your own flesh and blood was enough to prompt such a kind deed, _I do most humbly beg your pardon_.”

“Love without duty is pure fancy,” Colum said bluntly. “Which is why ye will not be marrying Mistress Beauchamp.”

“I will be. You have my word on it.”

Colum’s mouth quirked up into a wry smile, the steely calm controlling his features once more. “Ye truly think ye can do this to me again wi’ no consequences?”

“ _Again_?” Jamie laughed mirthlessly. “To my knowledge, I’ve never turned down a marriage arrangement from ye _before_.”

“But your  _mother_ did.”

Jamie stepped back and pressed his lips together. Jesus, he hadn’t stopped to think on it, but she’d—

“Aye, you’ll ken the story,” Colum said, his eyes alight with a near-maniacal gleam. “Betrothed to one _Malcolm Grant_ , and then up and decides she’d prefer to sneak off and swive in the heather wi’ your bastard father. And what your _*bastard* father_ may not have told you bairns round the fireside—“

“Do NOT use that word in my presence.”

“—is that her actions, her heedlessness and SELFISHNESS nearly started an all-out _war_ wi’ the Grants.” Colum thudded his fist onto the table. “This alliance is the reparation for that VERY slight, boy, and an end to the thirty years of bad blood between our clans that came of it. All that and more will be mended when you join wi’ Malcolm Grant’s daughter. I’ll no’ have it ruined because some Sassenach happened to walk her fine arse in front of ye.”

Jamie was already on his feet and gripping his dirk before realizing what he was doing. Colum’s look was defiant, as though daring Jamie to make him summon the guards. He couldn’t very well fight for Claire in a dungeon cell, and they both knew it fine.

Jamie clenched his hands behind his back and stared down at the MacKenzie across the wide desk. “If the marriage alliance was of such great importance, and ye esteem my leadership highly enough to have wished me to be laird one day, then ye ought to have spoken to me of Miss Grant previously, and no’ just have assumed I’d agree to throw my life away by wedding a stranger.” Jamie’s voice was calm. “But it doesn’t matter. I’m no’ your son, Colum; nor am I your logical successor, nor a ward, that ye might command me to bow to your will. I canna take responsibility for the choices of my departed mother—” Colum scoffed, and Jamie raised his voice, “—NOR will I be bound by an obligation I learned of scarce FIVE MINUTES ago. I SHALL go to Lallybroch with Mistress Beauchamp, where I’ll make her my wife and nothing you or Dougal can say shall—”

“Then it’s a good thing I sent word to the English garrison yesterday.”

Jamie’s blood froze. “W _hat_?”

Colum steepled his fingers, such a casual gesture Jamie wanted to reach across the desk and throttle him. “Oh, aye. About our mysterious Mistress Beauchamp, indicating my suspicions as to her character and purpose on my lands, and asking that they come and collect her, she being an English citizen, after all.” 

“ _How could ye— how could—?_ “ His words choked off in rage. _Claire, dragged to Fort William. Claire, in the hands of that monster, Randall_. “How could ye have _done_ such a thing, uncle?”

“Claire Beauchamp is nothing to me, to this clan, _to you,_ save a liability. And while ye may not be my son, ye pledged me an oath, and you’ll honor it by arriving in the great hall tomorrow noon to make the formal oath to your betrothed in front of her father and the clans so that the wedding plans might commence, else…” He trailed off, leaving Jamie to imagine what the consequences for disobedience might be.

It hadn’t been an oath that Jamie swore those weeks ago, and Colum MacKenzie knew it just fine. A pledge to obey while on MacKenzie lands: Colum KNEW it was no more than that, and yet here he was, manipulating Jamie with such precision, to have him bound and trussed with no more than a word. Christ, that he should ever have been thought fit to take over the clan from this conniving man.

“Promise me you’ll not turn her over to the English,” Jamie demanded, his head was spinning. “Swear to me that you’ll send another message, telling them it was a misunderstanding— that Mistress Beauchamp is no longer under suspicion.”

Colum considered, then nodded. “I’ll send it by rider tomorrow.  _After_ you’ve made your formal vow to Edina.”

Jamie breathed. Just breathed, focusing on the filling of his chest. 

He rose and bowed to his uncle. 

“Then, I’ll abide by my word, my chieftain.”

* * *

Jamie was kissing me and it wasn’t a dream. Thank the bloody Lord: I’d had it up to here with dreaming. I reached up and twined my fingers in his hair, moving my hips up against him. He moaned into my mouth and slipped his hand under my head. When I grappled for him, though, he laughed and pulled back. “Oh Jesus fucking _Christ_ , Jamie!” 

 He laughed again, landed one more good one, and then jumped off the bed.

I threw myself back hard onto the pillow. “You can’t just wake a girl up all sexy-like and then saunter off.” 

 “How’s about you saunter off along wi’ me?” 

His tone was playful, but there was an urgency in his movements that made me sit back up at once. “What do you mean?” 

He was moving across the room, gathering things into a satchel. “We must leave the castle— tonight.”

“We must—What???” But it all made sense: how I’d heard not a word from him since the garret, hadn’t seen him in the great hall. Something had happened in the session with Colum, and it wasn’t good.

 “I’m sorry for the suddenness, Sassenach, truly,” he said, placing the bag on the bed. “I’ll explain everything in full, I swear it, but we must leave, _now_.” 

Under his forced calm, I could sense the very real fear. “Jamie—are we in danger?” 

 “Aye.” 

 Honesty. The blatant, quiet honesty in him; yet another reason I felt so sure in him, in us. He would give his life to protect me, would tease and joke to put my mind at ease, but when directly asked, he would not lie to me. I’d lied to Jamie, I realized with a pang, but no more. There were no lies between us, nor secrets, and as ridiculous as it might have once seemed to me, I felt this man as an extension of my own mind. It was almost laughable, in fact, when he sat next to me on bed, a face on my palm and asked, “Do ye trust me?”

And I didn’t hesitate for a moment in replying. “Yes, I trust you.” 

He grinned. “And ye still wish to marry me, aye?” 

 *I* grinned. “ _Aye_ , I do, my bonny lad.” 

He kissed me. “Good. Then the greatest measure of our safety rests upon us being able to get off of MacKenzie lands. Only elsewhere am I in honor free of obedience to Colum. Only Colum’s no fool, so likely we’ll have to fight our way out of Leoch, this night.“ His control wavered, and for a moment, he looked truly distraught. “I’m sorry for putting this upon ye.”

“Just tell me what to do,” I said, running my hand down his face. “I trust you.” I kissed him back, though fear and exhilaration coursed through me. “And what’s the other measure?” 

The grin was back. “Making ye my wife as soon as humanly possible and taking ye to my bed to make things official.”

Taking the gift of his ease and humor against the fear of the night, I gave it back to him in kind, throwing up my hands in mock bewilderment. “How EVER will we bring ourselves to do it?”

He pulled a long-suffering kind of face as he pressed me rather scandalously back into the pillows. “‘Tis a grave task,” he said, nipping at the neck of my shift. “but I have a suspicion we’ll manage it somehow. Here,“ he said, dropping a pile of fabric at my shoulder, “put these breeks on and let’s get down to our business.“ 

Ah yes, just typical fighting-our-way-out-of-the-castle banter.


	9. Chapter 9

Jamie’s arm around my middle held me securely against his chest as he reigned up. His grip on me was strong, considerately preventing my lurching forward from inertia, but the added contact with his heaving chest showed he was just as exhausted as me. 

“So, wh—” Lord, this might be Scotland, and the night air cool and moist, but my mouth was dry as the Sahara. I laughed a little and leaned my head back against Jamie’s shoulder as I tried to get enough moisture to rasp out,  “Where are we, exactly?” 

“‘Exactly’ where, I dinna ken, but w—” He was a bit short of breath himself, apparently. He gave me a squeeze and a sweaty kiss on the cheek before relinquishing me to Murtagh, who was reaching to help me down from the horse. “—We crossed out of MacKenzie lands as of the last glen, so for the moment, we’re— _Whoa, lass—!_ ”

My knees locked as I slipped off the horse, my feet juddering so hard onto the packed earth that I nearly toppled before Murtagh’s strong grip saved me. “Are ye alright, _a nighean_?”

I just stared at him. 

Jamie shifted sharply in the saddle to check that I was alright. “ _Mo chridhe_?” 

“Fine,” I panted. I _was_  fine; but the shock of hearing an endearment coming from the ever-dour Murtagh’s lips, his eyes warm with concern, even, had taken me considerably aback. _A softy, underneath it all, eh?_ “Perfectly fine,” I said again, waving my hand in reassurance, “just tired.”

Jamie jumped down beside me and took the satchel from my hands. “Go have a bit of a rest, Sassenach, while we tend to the horses.” 

I didn’t need telling twice. I found a grassy spot and stretched full length on my back, groaning in relief and draping my arm over my face against harsh moonlight. 

We’d ridden for nearly twenty-four hours since our escape from Leoch, which had been no small feat in and of itself. 

* * *

> _A guard had begun stalking Jamie scarce twenty minutes after the confrontation with Colum. The brute—hulking, even compared to Jamie, if it could be believed—had been a faithful, menacing shadow for the entire afternoon and evening, escorting Jamie firmly to his chamber when night fell, and neatly preventing any contact between Jamie and me._
> 
> _Thankfully for all of us, Colum had not deemed it necessary to post a guard at MY door.  All Jamie had had to do was wait for the dark of midnight, clamber out his fourth-floor window, and climb CAREFULLY up the stone wall of the keep. He’d had one near-fall, sending a shower of stone dust and mortar chips downward; but thankfully, attracted no attention as he clambered up to the roof, and entered the castle again through a garret window to make his way to my chamber._
> 
> _Murtagh—with whom Jamie had had several vital minutes as he was leaving Colum’s tower—had not been assigned an obvious tail, and thus had been able to gather food and weapons for our flight. Jamie hadn’t dared risk having Murtagh speak to or otherwise get word to me, in case Colum had hidden eyes watching after all. They had, however, arranged for the torches between my chamber and the window to the east-wing roof to be prematurely extinguished, giving Jamie and me the cover of near-pitch-blackness in which to make our way to the roof. We’d had to dart hastily into an alcove as a pair of Grant retainers came down the hall, speaking of the next day’s ceremony and making bets on whether or not Edina Grant would faint (as, we were given to understand, she had a rather sickly constitution). But finally we made it to our escape hatch. Out the window we went, down a ten-foot drop to the roof of the wing below, a painstaking walk across the shadowed gable, and another drop to the yard below._
> 
> _It all would have gone off without a hitch, if the ostensibly-convenient stack of crates we were climbing down hadn’t toppled, causing a ruckus that attracted first the guard dogs and then the guards themselves. Jamie had managed to knock the three men out, but we could hear the alarm being raised and the thundering of many booted feet as we sprinted for the outer door, where Murtagh was waiting just outside. He’d managed only two horses, but beggars and choosers, and all that; and we were galloping south with all due haste, leaving the walls of Leoch behind, and praying we could stay ahead of any of Colum’s men that would be dispatched to follow us….which, thank heaven, we had._

* * *

Jamie thudded onto the ground next to me and groaned as he stretched out onto his back, his boots a few inches from my elbow. 

I rolled onto my stomach to give my aching rear end a break, laying my cheek on my crossed arms and feeling the night breeze ruffling through my hair. My head was spinning with the delirium of exhaustion, and I prayed this would be a LONG rest. The three or four respites we’d taken so far had been agonizingly short, time enough only to spare the horses keeling over. And if I was weary and aching, Jamie must be near to keeling over himself, having had the task of controlling the horse one-handed AND keeping a hold on me to keep me falling when I inevitably dozed off against his shoulder.

Sure enough, he groaned again, with an urgency and a Gaelic curse that spoke to a great deal of discomfort.

“Love?” I reached out a leaden hand to touch his foot, cursing that my medicine box had been (wisely) deemed too heavy to bring along, “Have you pulled something?”

“D’ye have _any_ notion,” he said between gritted teeth, “of how your arse looks in those breeks?”

Fatigue be damned, this was WORTH IT. I came up on my arms and craned my neck around to grin at him. He was propped up on one arm, staring in _definite_ distress at the item in question.

Jamie being Jamie, I had been rather startled that he had suggested trousers in the first place; but practicality, it seemed, had won out over propriety. It would have been a liability to all of us, to have me slowed by heavy skirts on our escape. 

Apparently, the breeks were their own sort of liability, though.   _I spy, with my little eye, a not-so-little_   _kilt tent._

“Good, is it?” I asked, trying my very hardest not to laugh….or ogle… _and failing at both. Definitely not little._

“ _Jesus_ ,” he said again, in what might have been considered a _whimper._

 _You know, you *have* undressed me completely, before, lad,_ I thought about saying; but I couldn’t help feeling gratified at his apparent awe. It _was_ a father fine arse, by all accounts. And, _might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb._ I gave my rear end a rather lewd undulation and he swore so violently it scared the horses.

“ _Cuir stad_ , lad, you’ll wake the dead!” Murtagh scolded, emerging from the underbrush with our refilled canteens and turning his gimlet eye on me. “What in _God’s_ name did ye DO to him?”

Jamie laughed and sat up. “All the right things, _a charaid._ ”

I sat up too, gratefully accepting my replenished canteen, changing the subject as well as my posture to spare Jamie from squirming himself into an early grave. “So, we’re safe, now? The MacKenzies can’t pursue us outside their own lands?”

“Not wi’out exposing themselves to a great deal of risk,” Murtagh said, plunking down next to us. “Colum’s enraged, to be sure, but he’ll have enough on his hands wi’ the Grants to consider doing anythin’ to vex another clan in the process.”  

“Lord, the poor Grants,” I laughed, groaning a bit. “They’ve gotten the short end of the stick, haven’t they?” 

Jamie’s mouth tightened, an expression I’d come to know meant he was supremely uncomfortable. “I did leave a letter in my chamber, ken?”

“A letter?” Murtagh and I both said together. 

“To Miss Grant,” he said, with a tight shrug. “Explaining that my flight had naught to do wi’ her, but only that my heart belonged to another.” 

I smiled. “That was _very_ considerate of you, darling.”

“Aye, and also hopefully t’will appease Malcolm Grant that Colum didna willfully seek to ensnare him and shame his daughter.”

“Do you think your uncles will ever let you come back to Leoch?”

“No.” It was Murtagh that answered, his voice grim. “Not if his mother’s case is to be our guide.”

Jamie nodded in agreement and dropped his eyes.

Ellen MacKenzie had never _once_ received even a word from her enraged brothers after her scandalous elopement with Black Brian Fraser. Dougal had apparently visited Lallybroch a time or two after her death, and had eventually taken Jamie for his foster, but from the moment she left that castle, Ellen’s fate had been sealed: exiled and infamous. 

It had been love for Ellen and Brian, Jamie said, real and deep and strong, and so she never had cause to regret her decision; and yet…

I scooted closer to her son and leaned in to kiss his shoulder. “I _am_ sorry, you know—to be the cause of your entire life upending.”

Jamie raised his eyebrows, dubious.

“Well, it’s not as if I want you to cast me to the roadside, do I? But they _are_ your family. I know they don’t mean _nothing_ to you.”

“True…and thank you, Sassenach. But to the MacKenzies, family is obligation as much as affection. Heart, but with claws.” He pulled me close and kissed the top of my head. “Dinna fash: I dinna regret a thing.” 

“Well, I know you don’t _now,_ but — ” 

“They’re my blood, but my _true_ family is Jenny. Murtagh.” He squeezed my hand hard. “ _You_.”

The lump formed so suddenly in my throat, I could only whisper it back to him. “ _You.”_   

My _only_  family. 

He gently cupped my chin and kissed me, then drew back with purpose, catching his godfather’s eye. “I ken you’re as tired as we, _a gostadh_ , but surely ye must be getting on your way if you’re to catch the post rider?”

The dour clansman nodded and got to his feet. “I’ll be off in ten minutes, as soon as the handfasting is done.”

Jamie was like a loosed arrow as he leapt to his feet, barking something at Murtagh in rapid Gaelic.  Murtagh threw up his face and said something scornful back in the same language, and even my brief time amongst eighteenth-century highlanders had taught me the early warning signs of an all-out brawl. 

“Jesus H. Christ, _honestly!”_ I stepped neatly between them—getting a prodigious spray of spittle from both sides for my efforts—and held up my hands. “Will you both calm down and PLEASE explain to me what handfasting is?”

“Handfasting is—” Murtagh began.

“—nothing you need trouble yourself over, because it’s NOT HAPPENING,” Jamie finished, eyes flashing at Murtagh across my shoulder.

“—A CEREMONY OF MARRIAGE,” Murtagh persisted, “for when there’s no priest handy. Ye join hands, say the words, and you’re man and wife for a year and a day, until the union can be formally blessed.”

“And it’s real? A legitimate union, I mean, according to the church?” 

“Aye,” he said, seeming surprised by my doubt. “Valid only for the year, but valid nonetheless. Common enough in the Highlands so as no’ to looked down upon.” 

“We are _not_  going to be handfasted,” Jamie growled, “and that’s all there—”

“But _of course_ we should!” I said. “Jamie, you said it yourself at Leoch: being married as soon as possible is the next most important thing for our safety, yes?”

“Aye, but—” He shuffled uncomfortably. “It’s so— _crude!_ Ye deserve a ring—a proper dress for—”

“I don’t bloody need all _that_!“ I said with such laughing scorn that he looked startled. “Jamie… I’ve _been_ married before,” I said, far more gently. “The ring, the clothes—? Those things can be lovely, but they _aren’t important to me_. But if…” I searched his face, not wanting to be flippant. “ _Are_ they important to _you_?”

“Well, aye, in a way but — They’re only important insomuch as—” He was flustered, almost _sheepish_ in his unease as he ran a hand backward through his hair.  “I should never wish to give ye anything less than is due to ye. I want to _honor_ ye, Sassenach.”

“You _do_ honor me, Jamie, just by wanting to marry me. _That’s all I need.”_

He looked torn.  “I ken you’re a practical woman, Claire, and ye wish to put a good face on things, but—”

“But _I do mean it,_ my love. No, _listen_ ,” I pushed, as he began to interrupt. “If I had been Edina Grant, say, a stranger you were OBLIGED to marry…just think of how different the wedding would need to be. The ring, our clothing, the place—that all _would_ be significant, because–”

“Because we wouldna be knowing each other?” Jamie said, his features relaxing.

I exhaled in relief at the understanding in his voice. “ _Exactly_.”

“I’d be a stranger you were meeting at the altar,” he continued, nodding slowly. 

“And so the protocol, the finery and beauty of it all,” I took up, “ _That_ would be what we’d remember about our wedding. We’d need that to hold on to, to make it a pleasant memory.” 

“….Until we might come to love or respect one another, one day,” he finished.

“But you _do_ know me, Jamie: you _know_ me. And you know I want to marry you.” I touched his face, sweeping down the stubble of his jaw. “And so the _love_ we share is what we’ll remember about tonight. Nothing else matters.”

“Nothing else,” he repeated, his eyes twinkling and his mouth turned up in a tender smile, “ _mo nighean donn_.”

And so it truly didn’t matter that we were both sweaty and reeking of horse as I came into his arms; didn’t matter that I was dressed like a little boy, or that my hair had reached the size and texture of the average haystack. All that mattered was that he meant it when he whispered, hoarse with feeling, “I _do_ love you, Claire.” 

And that there was no reservation in my heart when I looked up into his eyes and said back to him, “And I love you.” 

“And if ye’re both quite finished breathing into each other’s faces,” Murtagh said, belching, “we’ll get on wi’ it?”

* * *

It was fast; it was simple—with not a scrap of either pomp or circumstance. We simply knelt, clasped hands, and said the words with Murtagh as witness. 

And yet, even so, a deep, silent peace descended around us, wrapping each syllable in a sweet solemnity that _would_ mark this place, this night in our memories, always: 

“I, Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp do take thee, James Alexander M—” He grinned, but I managed it, and the spell fell around us again. “— _Malcolm_ MacKenzie Fraser, to be my lawful wedded husband. With my goods I thee endow, with my body I thee worship, in sickness and in health, in richness and in poverty, so long as we both shall live.”

His eyes blazed as he swore his life to me in return. “I, James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser, do take thee, Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp, to be my lawful wedded wife. With my goods I thee endow, with my body I thee worship, in sickness and in health, in richness and in poverty, so long as we both shall live.”

And I kissed him, kissed him, _kissed him,_  and felt the world slide, then _click_ into place. 

_A pair._

_A home._

* * *

Jamie didn’t let go of my hand for a moment during our toast (for not even a _fugitive_  Scotsman travels without whisky), nor did either of us stop grinning like fools in love. Husband. Wife. 

Not even Murtagh was unaffected. For all he tried to hide behind his gruff and scruff, I’d seen his eyes sparkling as he looked down at Jamie and me saying our vows; I’d felt the feeling behind the rough hug he’d given me; and I’d been floored by the hoarseness of his voice as he’d said in my ear, “You’re right for him, _a nighean_.” And that made me feel an absolute empress over my happiness. Right for him; right for me; _right._

“We’ll stay the night here,” Jamie said with decision, reaching up for his saddlebag. 

But Murtagh said something in rapid Gaelic as he swung up into his saddle, gesturing to the east. Jamie grinned, asked something back, and got an answer that seemed to both surprise and please him greatly before Murtagh was galloping off into the distance.

“What was that about?”

“Murtagh knows of a better place for us to spend the night.” He held out his hand. “Can ye bear to ride a bit longer, my wife?”

I accepted the boost up into the saddle. “If it’s worth it, darling husband.” 

“Sounds as if it will be,” he said as he clambered up behind us and turned us east. “And it’s good it isna far.“

“Tired?”

“Aye. And…” He ran his fingers down my rib cage and my blood went hot as he breathed into my shoulder, “… _I’d like to get started wi’ worshiping your body_.”

[more to come]


	10. Chapter 10

**When I awoke,** I was startled to find that I wasn’t on Jamie’s horse, but tucked up snugly in a blanket under a rowan tree. 

Alone. 

“Jamie??” I bolted into a sitting position, scanning the darkened clearing, feeling my senses reeling as they struggled to place me in space and time. The air when we’d handfasted had been moist and deliciously cool, not this warm, dry stillness that was making the silence of the wood resonate so ominously; and I could have sworn the elevation had changed—that I was up very much higher indeed than any other time on our journey from Leoch. And most terrifyingly of all, the horses were tethered nearby, but there was no sign of Jamie or our baggage anywhere. 

“JAMIE?” I called again, panic starting to gather as I staggered to my feet. “ _JAMIE_??” 

I whirled as hasty footsteps came crashing through the underbrush behind me, but thank God, it WAS Jamie. “Och, so s _he’s awake,_ at last!” he said, grinning. His face fell as he saw my expression, and he caught me up tight against him as I threw myself into his arms. “Oh, lass, ye didna think I’d ever _leave_ ye?”

“ _No_ , you brute, but you could have been  _captured_ —” I gasped out against his neck as I kissed it, not crying, but my heart thundering even as I tried to hide my lingering panic, “I thought Dougal had caught up with you.” 

“No’ a chance, _a nighean,_ ” he promised warmly, holding me close. “All safe and sound.” 

I leaned my head against his shoulder. “How long was I asleep, then?”

“Nearly a full day,” he said, confirming my suspicion. “Ye fell asleep on the horse wi’ me last night and havena woken once, ‘til now. Had to wake and check on ye every few hours to make sure ye hadna up and _died_!”

“You _smell_ good,“ I blurted.

He laughed and stepped away, doing a little turn to show off. “Had a wee bath in the burn. Cold enough to freeze my bollocks off, but glad to hear it was well worth it.” 

He showed me the way to the stream, just through the trees to the south. Cold or not, I was  _dying_ to get the  _Eau de Two Days of Horse and Panic-Sweat_ off me.

“When ye get finished,” he said, sounding tentative, “ye might…come join me up at the top of the hill?” 

“What’s at the top of the hill?” 

He shrugged, far too casually. “I’ve…made a sort of _place_ for us, for….ken?”

_I’d like to get started wi’ worshiping your body._

For one wild moment, I wanted to forget the bath and have him right there, right then. But I really _did_ smell atrocious, and there is nothing less romantic than being the filthy one when being intimate with a squeaky-clean partner. 

“I’ll be there soon,” I promised, my voice trembling just a touch; but he heard it, and I could have sworn he quivered.  Jesus H. Roosevelt _CHRIST_.

Finding the small stream, I washed quickly. I would have loved to wash my hair, but waiting for it to dry would have been a two-hour ordeal for which I wasn’t willing to make Jamie wait—or _myself_ , to be honest. Despite that, the ice-cold water, and even the fact that I hadn’t any soap, it was heavenly to scrub off the worst of the filth and stink, and I came out shivering, but distinctly refreshed. I bent for my discarded clothes, then thought better of it, walking naked back to the horses and wrapping myself instead in the same blanket I’d slept in. No use putting clothes back on, dirty or otherwise, given— 

I wolfed down some cheese and bannocks that Jamie had left for me, then—with a deep, bracing breath—began my barefoot walk over the soft grass up the hill. I didn’t have to guess the direction, just followed the smell of the woodsmoke that floated on the warm air. It was a bit of a steep climb, and when the grade finally evened out I could see despite the darkness of the terrain beneath that we _were_ very high up indeed; but it was the sight straight ahead that took my breath away completely.

It must have been a mountaintop chapel, once, though there was no longer a roof of any sort atop the three half-standing stone walls. It would have had a vaulted ceiling, high for its tiny size, with tall, graceful windows. The pale stone—overgrown in places by creeping, floral vines— must have had some sort of quartz in the grain, for the firelight and moonlight together seemed to illuminate the sanctuary all-round like phosphorous, casting the place in a warm, twinkling glow. 

Jamie was there, smoothing out the pallet of blankets he’d made overtop a makeshift mattress of heather and soft grasses in the far corner. Bless him, he’d even gathered flowers to grace the sill of the glassless window above the bed. I should have laughed. I should have teased him, but…but it was too breathtaking to say anything but an awed, “ _Jamie_ …” 

He whirled, his expression a little wild and startled, until it softened into a warm smile. “Hello, Sassenach.”

“Jamie,” I said again, gawping in wonder at the haven he’d appointed for us as I came around the fire toward him, “this is… absolutely _beautiful_.”

He nodded shyly, taking in the surroundings himself. “Murtagh said it was where my parents came, ken, for the first few days after they were marrit. He thought it would be verra peaceful. Private.”

As well it was. It was almost a shame—if Jamie had desired to be married in a church, this would have been an exquisite substitute. True, it would have taken Murtagh too far from the route to follow the post rider, which was too important to risk. What we _would_  do here, though…yes, it would be an exquisite setting for that, too. And _hopefully_ not a sacrilege. 

“But are ye cold, Sassenach?” my husband asked suddenly, seeing how tightly the blanket was wound around me from chin to toes. “I can add more wood to the—”

“No,” I promised, laughing a bit, though feeling as though all air had been sucked from the mountaintop.  “I’m not wearing it for the cold.” I let the blanket drop, just slightly, just enough to let him see my bare shoulders underneath. 

His face slackened, his nostrils flaring as he dropped his head and breathed carefully. “Aye… _well_ …”

Somehow, I sensed he wouldn’t make a move before I did; so I gripped my blanket tight with one hand and came forward to lay the other on on his chest, my fingertips just grazing the warm hollow of his throat. I could feel it bobbing under my hand, hot, alive. “I think you’d better get out of these clothes,” I said, my voice husky. 

His eyes went wide, but he obeyed. He turned his back to me, pulling off his shirt and making a to-do over folding it into a pillow for the pallet. I came a few steps closer, wanting to see him. The scars shone in the moonlight, full of the memory of his pain, but taking away none of the beauty of him or his body. 

He was moving slowly; very slowly, in fact. Was I only _imagining_ that he seemed loath to begin? 

As he rose back to his feet, I stepped even closer and pressed my cheek against his back. He tensed instantly, and I laid a kiss on the deepest scar. “Is everything alright, love?” I said, running a hand around to his stomach, the other still clutching the blanket.

“Aye – well…Claire, I need to tell ye something.”

What could _possibly_  be relevant to tell me RIGHT NOW? He’d murdered someone? He was… _impotent_? No, I’d had plenty of evidence that Jamie Fraser was capable of an erection. “Tell me,” I said with no little trepidation. 

He turned to me, and he looked positively wretched as he admitted, “I’ve never— _done this,_ before.”

* * *

 **He’d expected her to laugh** ; to grin and tease and ask _how on earth he’d managed THAT_ , and _was there something about his anatomy that had frightened the lassies away for so long???_ He’d not have minded, to be honest—perhaps humor would have eased the tension he felt stringing his back as tight as a bow. 

But what she _did_ do—what his wife did, erasing his fear at the root—was make a small, tender sound deep in her throat, run her hand up to rest on his cheek, and say, “Then this will be all the more beautiful.” She rose on her toes and kissed him, deeply, and he melted into her, bringing his hands to rest on her blanketed hips.

“How do you want it to be?” she asked, breathing heavily, all of the sudden. 

”…How?”   _How many ways *were* there?_

“Your first time,” she said, carefully. “Shall I be gentle with you?”

His wame dropped. 

His mouth went dry. 

And he felt the growl of need tearing from him as he reached for her: “ _No_.”

And she growled back just before her mouth crashed into his: “ _Thankgod_ ” 

They were going to devour each other. She was against him and her blanket was gone. She was grappling with his belt and he felt the plaid fall to his ankles. He gasped and groaned in the same breath as he felt the length of her naked body pressed full against the naked length of his. “Wait,” he whispered raggedly, “wait…. _wait_ …” 

She was reaching raggedly but she stilled without question and waited, holding him close.

He held her, too, savoring her despite the roaring in his blood, the aching in his cock as he whispered. “I want to _see_ you, _mo nighean donn, before…_.”

She smiled and nodded, kissing his chest right next to his heart. “I love you, Jamie,” she whispered, happily, sweetly, softly as breaking dawn.  

“And I, you, _mo chridhe_.” 

 She tilted her chin up so that her golden eyes shone up at him. “Together?”

 _Always._ “Together.” 

They each stepped back; and Jamie felt as though he’d been shot through with a javelin. 

There was a statue in one of the Sorbonne gardens, he remembered: white marble, and lovely, a likeness of a mythical goddess that stood radiant and beautiful; a work of true art. But Claire was the original; _Artemis,_ shining in the moonlight, perfect in every seamless, curving inch of her; every dark curl; every quivering muscle, poised for the hunt. Her hips were wide, her breasts fuller and rounder than he’d ever dared imagine. Her lips—those soft, flushed lips were parting. “Dear _God_ ,” she was whispering, seemingly awestruck, herself, “Jamie, you’re _beautiful_.”

 _ME? A Dhia, look at YOU_ , he meant to say but couldn’t manage even a syllable. 

She shivered and gave a little smile at his muteness. “Have you ever seen a naked woman before, love?”

“Not up close,” he admitted, feeling foolish.

“Is it…?” she started, then shook her head and broke off, smiling in embarrassment. 

“It IS,” he vowed, and meant it with all his being. “ _You_ are.” And it seemed she couldn’t help but glow a bit brighter.

He  _had_ seen glimpses of women before, of course, but nothing like this; nothing like the glory of his wife. It seemed so idiotic, to be so undone by superficial beauty; but he deemed it a blessed surfeit of unmerited riches, that his  _sorcha,_ the light of him, was also the most beautiful person he’d ever beheld.

Before he could voice that he didn’t know how to begin— _should he just… turn her around and bend her over? Would the windowsill be of help to keep her from toppling forward_?—Claire was stepping past him to the bed…lying down on her back…spreading her legs… 

“ _Jesus_ ,” he moaned, dropping to his knees harder than he’d intended. It felt fitting, though, to prostrate himself before her. He crawled closer and ran a hand down her thigh from the knee, so cool and so soft. 

She shivered at his touch. “Come here,” she whispered, firelight in her eyes as she reached for him, beckoning him to come kiss her. _Face to face?_ Aye, he could see how that would get things properly aligned, but he couldn’t tear himself away, yet. “ _May I touch you_?” he begged.

From the way she blinked, she hadn’t expected him to say that, but she nodded, and as he reached for her, she rolled her hips slightly to meet him. His fingertips met the soft, hot flesh of her, the moisture there, and the choked, “Oh— _GOD_ ,” echoed in his chest and around the walls of stone. To his shock, though, it had come from _Claire_. 

He looked up at her in utter astonishment and delight, grinning like a fool. “It feels good, lass?” 

She moaned in what must have been assent, for she moved closer to him, seeking more. He moved his fingers again, gently tracing the delicate folds of her, and could have died to hear her groan his name like that. 

He felt drunk—he _was_  drunk on the euphoria of feeling her arousal coursing through his blood. She _liked_ to be touched…and even HE could give her pleasure, it seemed, in whatever small way. He’d heard most women didn’t enjoy the deed itself, overmuch, but — _Claire liked his touch, between her legs—Maybe she would like—_

Heart thudding, he moved to the proper spot— _dear God in Heaven, he *hoped* it was the proper spot_ —and slid a finger inside her.

He’d been gentle about it, he thought, but she arched immediately and cried out as she sat halfway up and looked at him in wide-eyed shock. “Oh, Christ, lass, I’m—” He snatched his hand back, mortified, “Forgive me, that wasna–”

But she grabbed his wrist, hard—and she met his gaze with what he swore was lust as she pressed him back inside her, until his palm was cupping her. He moaned to feel her tighten around him, feeling the silky-wet heat of her, all rough and smooth and alive against his skin. Her eyes fluttered shut as she began rolling her hips forth and back against him. He understood and he took up the motion himself, moving slowly in and out of her. She fell onto her back again, making the most exquisite sounds Jamie had ever heard.

_Well, this *certainly* makes me feel more at ease about my own chances, soon to come. If just one finger can—_

The next time he withdrew from her, he replaced _two_ fingers. She cried out, throwing back her head and arching her back, her hand darting between her legs. He thought she meant to push him away, but she was only stroking herself at a spot just a bit higher up from his own hand that seemed to heighten her sensation. He could _feel_ the difference of it around his fingers. He’d have to ask her about that spot later, whether or not it was something that he might help her handle in some fashion, the next time; but he wouldn’t interrupt her pleasure for the world, and he drank in the gift of it. 

He trailed kisses down her leg and up to her hipbone, watching her with fascination, not knowing what to expect or when to stop—Christ, he would go on with this bliss _forever_ , if she wished it.  “ _Faster_ ,” she moaned, as if hearing his thoughts. The sounds of her grew and swelled as he obeyed instantly and moved faster, hard enough that he thought surely he would break her in some way; and just as that thought crossed his mind, suddenly she _was_ breaking, clenching tight around him, fast as a flutter of wings around his fingers, but hard and strong as a vice as she cried out so loudly it made the walls of the church resonate… _with the sound of her._

_JESUS_

He lay there, draped between her legs and over her heaving belly, shuddering under his own aching desire and with delight at what hers had just shown him. It was what he had felt that cold night on the road, when she’d woken and moved against him in sleep, that iron-hot blaze of her need reaching out for him—but no _Hail Marys_ , this night; only desperate cries of thanks and joy—and pleas for more, _more_ , praise be to God, MORE. 

Her breaths gradually slowed and she opened her eyes. “Oh, lass,” he groaned to see her so, glistening and panting, so ready and _—_  “ _Mo chridhe—”_

His fingers within her were shaking and she pushed them free of her.  _“I need you, now.”_ Her hands were strong and urgent as she reached for him. “ _Now—now—now—_ ”

“Take me, Claire.” He barely heard his own desperate words, completely in the thrall of her, the cry of his body moaning, “— _Show me._ ” 

With unbelievable strength for someone of her size, she flipped him onto his back and the sight of her moving to straddle him, the feel of her thighs on either side of his hips as she poised herself above him, was—

He moaned her name, _begging_ her—

—and it was her name, again _—_   _curse and prayer together_   _—_ that sent countless wings skyward from the treetops as she took the whole of him inside her with one sure movement. 

He gasped for air over and over before he could form more words. “You feel—”

“ _You too_ ,” she breathed, her face exquisite with sensation and something like relief. “ _God_ , you too.” 

“—Sassenach—” He moved in her, and it was all the leave she needed. 

Jamie thought the entire world would come apart from the way she made every inch and every fiber of him sigh _and scream_ from pleasure in the same instant. He grabbed her hips in both his hands to feel the power of her, the power of her _over him_. And the sight of her—the goddamned _sight_ of her—her head thrown back and her eyes closed but her face alight with triumph and furor as she leaned backward and writhed along his length was—

“Claire—I canna–” he gasped out, his fingertips surely bruising her as he gripped her harder. “I willna last—verra much longer—”

She fell forward and somehow his body knew what hers wordlessly commanded. They rolled together until she was under him. 

“Wait,” she groaned, and she was slipping her hand down between them to touch that place again, and the sight of it, the feel of her touching herself practically against him was so arousing that—

 _“Jamie, *now*—”_ she gasped with an intensity that nearly undid him in and of itself as she grabbed both his shoulders,  _“—now—now—Hard_.” He thrust in to the hilt, over and over, hard and fast, every stroke absolute, blazing joy; and when he heard her cry out and felt that iron tremor beginning around his cock, he let her take him, body and soul, let her drag him into an explosion of pleasure and color and sound that enveloped them both and vanished the world in flame and breath. 

He had fallen forward, at some point; had her head cupped in his hand; was still sheathed in her.  Every few seconds, a wave of sensation jolted through him and he shivered and moaned from it. He leaned his forehead against hers, his voice a broken shell. “…. _I want…to die like this_.”

“ _Please_ don’t,” she laughed weakly. She was slick with sweat underneath him, heaving, running her hands along his back, his face.

“I want….to do this wi’ you…” he amended, smiling with every once of strength left to him, “…. _every possible moment_ … for the rest of my life.”

She glowed as she kissed him and whispered, “It’s a bargain, Jamie. _”_


	11. Chapter 11

“I wanted to do that with you,” I sighed, nestling my bottom back against his hips, “for a _very_ long time.”

“Oh, aye?” I could hear the grin in his voice as he kissed my shoulder and nipped kisses down my arm. “How did ye ken I’d be any good at it?”

“Who’s saying you _were_?” 

He heard the obvious teasing in my voice — _calling a spade a spade: he’d been pretty bloody fantastic—_ and he gave it right back to me as he _tsked_ with a mock-wounded, “Och, but she’s a vicious,  _cruel_ thing _.”_ He slipped his arm under my head and brought the hand around to hold me close, whispering, grinning, “ _Cruel, cruel, cruel,”_ as he nipped his way up my still-flushed neck. 

I hummed a happy laugh. “I _didn’t_ know. But…” I turned my head back toward him, and right on cue, he brought his ear down near my mouth, so that hot breath moved against him as I finished, “…I knew I wanted you inside me.”

I felt him shiver at that, and he moved his hips ever-so-slightly against me, tracing a slow, warm hand up and down my hip and abdomen. A devilish grin still in his voice, he murmured, “Have I married a wanton, then?”

“You’re going to have your hands quite full with me in your bed,” I laughed, giving ‘devilish’ right back to him, “ _whatever_  rude name you wish you assign to it.” 

“It’s _wonderful_ , mo nighean donn,” he said, his voice suddenly soft. “I never dreamed—I— _I didna even ken what it could be like_.” I melted as he kissed my shoulder, my neck, my jaw. “How…. _perfectly happy_ a person could feel.” 

I _had_ known—

but to feel it with _him…_

Itwas a new kind of perfection. 

“When I’m inside ye, Sassenach….” My husband pulled me tighter, seeming to fix his entire being on surrounding me, pulling me into him. “….I feel like…. _God himself._ ” 

The laughter fizzed out of me before I could suppress it, which startled Jamie, but another moment, and the _both_ of us were giggling uncontrollably. I had trouble getting the words out. “Is—that why you—took his name in vain so much??” 

“While you’re _already_ laughing at me—” Jamie choked out, the whole of him quaking behind me “—shall I tell ye that I didna ken there—was _more than on_ e position for coupling?” 

“No!!!!” I gasped, feeling my cheeks would break from delight. “WHICH ONE??” 

“The— _back way—”_ he groaned, his voice wobbling as absurdly as his belly against my back, teetering on the edge of hysterics, _“—like HORSES—”_

 _“_ Jamie— _”_ I moaned, coughing, a full _two minutes_ later, “…hhhhhhhhORSES!!!” 

“So YOU’RE—” Jamie gasped between veritable _sobs_ of laughter, “—a—w— _wanton_ , and I’m—a daft—LOON—” 

More giggles. And hacking and coughing and still more giggles, until we were little more than a quivering puddle of flesh, our muscles absolutely spent from laughter.

I sighed a huge, deep sigh, exhausted from all the love and happiness. He did, too, and we settled back into each other, spooning close, snuggled under his plaid. 

“So, what will we do, now, love? Make for Lallybroch?”

“Aye,” he said, “taking a verra indirect route, so as to stay off MacKenzie lands, but we’ll begin heading that way, to be sure.”

“And…we’ll stay there? _Indefinitely_?” 

I hoped the raw eagerness didn’t show too obviously in my voice. I’d never had a real home, before—a place on the earth that was _mine_ in some lasting way; and I’d never truly acknowledged to myself just how much something in my soul yearned for such a thing—a place to settle and grow—to fill with love and good food and memories. From what Jamie had said to me of his home, I knew Lallybroch could be that place; but I didn’t want to get my hopes up if we were going to be uprooted again. 

“Well,” he said, shifting at my back and sounding nervous. “I suppose it’s—something we must decide together, aye?” 

I smiled, touched. He was acknowledging my choice. That it might always be _together._  

“’Tis naught but a humble farm estate, ken?” he was saying, his words rushed and clumsy. “If ye—think you’d be _happier_ someplace more–”

“No, I didn’t mean—!” I rolled to face him and let the truth of it show in my eyes. “It’s only that I don’t want to fall in love with a place we might have to leave.”

Happy relief flooded his face. “I dinna ever wish to leave, truthfully. I do think you’ll love it, Sassenach.” A flicker of doubt. “But do ye truly think ye can be _happy_? It’s no’ an easy life, a farm. We’ve servants and laborers, but there shall still—”

“I know I can, Jamie. I _know_  it.” 

And just as I vowed it, just as I savored the happy joy radiating from him, from me, _the weight of history came crashing down around my shoulders._

My face must have fallen, for he was turning it up to him. “ _Mo nighean donn_?” 

And though it threatened to crush my heart into dust, I told him.  About the war to come; the ‘45, and Bonnie Prince Charlie. The doomed cause. The famines. The Clearances. The endless upheavals and hardships that would all but destroy the Scotland he knew in just a few short years. How our life together would almost certainly be shaped—friends and family _destroyed_ , if not ourselves, and _that_ only by the grace of God— by an utterly doomed cause. 

He said not a word while I spoke, but I watched his face harden into a mask of control, a sign of just how deeply he, too, felt the fear and dread of the devastation that loomed so close at hand. He had come to lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling of stars as I prophesied doom over the perfect happiness of this night, our life. 

“Is there…” he said, long after I’d fallen silent, “… _anything_ we can do against this?” I turned onto my side to face him, though he still stared at the sky. “Mightn’t we—” He ran a hand backward through his hair. “ _Since we ken_ what’s to come, might we take steps to _change_ things?” The desperate hope in his eyes… “ _Prevent_ some of this tragedy before it can run its course?” 

My mind reeled. _Intentionally_  change the future? 

“I don’t know how much two people _could_ do, Jamie,” I said, giving him honesty. 

He set his jaw and nodded, closing his eyes for a moment as though committing some prayer upward.  I brought an arm up and across his chest, half-laying on him as I put a soft hand on his cheek. “But we _will_  do what we can. We’ll take measures to keep Lallybroch safe, at the very least; to keep our _family_ safe. I promise.”

A sigh escaped him, something like relief, and he pulled me close, my cheek on his chest. “Then lead us, wise woman,” he murmured, “and keep us from harm.”

There was no laughter in his voice—only feeling, and genuine supplication. “Perhaps, Claire….Maybe ye were brought back to this time no’ just to save _me,_ but _many_ in these troubles to come.” 

_God, the weight of those words upon me—the burden of knowledge of what was to come._

“I don’t—It _still_ might not be enough—”

He put a gentle finger to my lips. “I trust ye, _mo nighean donn._ And whatever must be done, we’ll face it together.”

I kissed him, long, soft, and deep. Together.  

A long time later, my parched throat overcame coziness and I stood, at which he made the most adorable little needy sound of protest. “I’m only going to get the canteen, you _animal!_ ” 

Still, I made a little show of sauntering over to our bags by the adjacent wall, bending _luxuriously_ over, and taking a long swallow with my back to him, nearly spitting out the water to hear his sounds of distress all the while. “You _do_ know how to make a girl feel gratified, Jamie. Positively got it down to an ART!”

“No’ art. Sheer. *animal*. _weakness_.” 

We both laughed, but when I turned back to face him, on his side watching me, his expression was serious, sweet with love. “Ye ken…I _loved_ you, Sassenach, since I held you in my arms, that first day we arrived at Leoch.” 

I could only beam with happiness at the memory. God, that fireside…

 _(…and given the evident solemnity in what he was about to say, I refrained from mentioning the rather vivid association in my mind between that encounter and HORSES.)_  

 “I _loved_ you, then…” he went on, grinning, “—but Christ, when you fell into that river–”

“ _Pushed_ ,” I couldn’t keep from correcting with a playful grimace.

“Oh aye, when Ned Gowan—may he be sainted for it— _pushed_ ye into the river,” he amended with a flash of a grin before continuing, quiet once more “—and ye let me carry ye… undress ye… _hold_ ye… _Christ_ ….” He sat up and stared at me, shaking his head. “Claire, _mo chridhe_ : my entire life just—rearranged around me.”

“I wanted it to be you.” My throat was so tight, it came out in a pitifully flimsy whisper.  

“What was that, lass?” he asked eagerly, standing and crossing to me where I stood leaning against the cool stones of the wall.

“When you set me down by the fire, that night, I knew I needed body heat.” I splayed my hands across his broad, smooth chest, tracing the beautiful outline of him.  “I was so far gone I couldn’t get the words out, and Murtagh, bless him, he was on the right track, so I just curled up and let things take their course, but—Jamie, I _so badly ached_ for it to be you. I wanted….I kept trying to pluck up the courage to just say it.” 

He brushed a curl back from my face. “Say what?” 

“‘ _Jamie! You. Me. Warmth Cuddles! Spit spot_!’” 

We both laughed, but I felt my belly clutch in memory. “But I was afraid, for so many reasons.” 

He pressed me gently back against the wall and kissed me, giving me the gift of not having to speak aloud the main reason for my fear and shame over my feelings that night. “Well, if _you_ were afraid, Sassenach,” he said against my lips, “I was fairly shitting myself.” 

Memory, sadness, shame:  _banished._ I chortled rather gracelessly into his mouth. “Oh, yes, that was _quite_ apparent, love.”

He rolled his eyes as he smiled, sheepishly. “Christ, I wanted ye so badly I could scarcely breathe. A green, virgin lad handed a naked goddess and asked to mind her through the cold, dark night??“ 

“I wasn’t _naked,_ you oaf!!” 

“Ye should have told that to my cock. It couldna seem to tell the difference.” We nearly dissolved into another fit of giggles before he groaned ruefully. “Had to say my hail marys to keep from embarrassing myself. WELL, I _did_ embarrass myself, did I not?—to keep from doing something _lecherous.”_ He stepped a pace back from me, shaking his head with a kind of dark awe as he surveyed me from head to toe. “It certainly _felt_ as if it should be a sin….to behold you, so.”

I gave a dramatic look backward at my posterior, then another conspicuously between his legs, raising my eyebrows in pleasant surprise at what I found there. “Makes one wonder whether sin is half so bad, after all.”

 _THAT fast._ Fire burned in his eyes as he closed the distance between us, jerked me off my feet, and pressed me against the wall—NOT gently. I came alive for him, wrapped my legs around him in visceral, lightning-fast permission, and he entered me with a sharp thrust that sent a deep gasp wrenching from my throat. And he was moving deep, deep, _deeper_ inside me as he growled into my ear:

 “ _Then give me my sin again, Sassenach._ ”

## THE END


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